Endangered: Styne Saga, Part 1
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: Stanford Era A/U. When the Stynes kidnap Sam and Jess for an ancient family ritual involving 'legacies,' John and Dean will need all the help they can get to mount a rescue—especially after a few old enemies return to complicate things. Featuring Doc Benton with a special appearance by Azazel!
1. Divination

_**Author's Note:** Hi everyone! So __I decided to write this because the Stynes in season 10 really caught my imagination, but the episodes themselves let me down—I hoped to see WAY more interaction between the two families than we actually did. They're so different, but in many ways, they're very similar, and I'd like to convey that in this fic. It is AU, but I'm trying to stay as faithful to the characters as I can. Expect to see plenty of familiar faces!_

 _Now, about dates and ages… I'm doing a lot of guess work here. The show wasn't all that specific… And since I'm a sucker for good parallelism, I decided to make Jacob and Eldon four years apart, just like Dean and Sam—but also more experienced, so Eldon will be Dean's age, and Jacob will be four years older. Hope no one minds!_

 _Please bear with me for the first two chapters. They're mostly exposition. The good stuff starts in chapter 3. Please read and let me know what you think! I love receiving feedback._

 _ **Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 _Special thanks to Lauren and Allyson for all your help. Love working with you girls!_

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … 1990)**

Sitting on the hard wood of her family's wrap-around porch, Elizabeth Styne barely noticed the sunset. Her fresh blue eyes were fixed on the three marble-sized crystals in front of her, and at six-years-old, she had little patience for blood-red skies. What a waste of time.

The crystals now… They were exquisite. Clear, rose, and obsidian… Flawless. Eli claimed they were mother's… but Elizabeth knew the truth. They were far, far older than he could imagine… and she didn't care what anyone said. She was not too little to scry with them.

"Thomas…" Her tender voice shook with longing as the trance swept over her. Using the crystals to hone her strength, she sought the only solace available to doll-faced children such as herself… Dreams and visions…

But nothing could have prepared her for the nightmare in store. It knocked her back with intense clarity, making her ears ring. Her stomach churned and if she were not a Styne, she would have sobbed from the sudden anguish piercing her heart. Instead, she let out a violent shriek that brought her cousins running.

Eldon first. Then Jacob. They were five and nine years older than she was, both big and strong and loyal. Promising. They might treat her like a fragile kitten, but they meant well, and she had need of them.

"What's wrong, Lilibet?" Jacob asked as Elizabeth threw her arms around Eldon's neck. His hand brushed softly through her blonde ringlets.

"They're after him!" She met Jacob's gaze. Just because he wasn't yet sixteen didn't mean he couldn't drive his daddy's car. "You have to help him!"

"Help who, sweetheart?"

Elizabeth froze, scowling as the family patriarch Monroe Styne swaggered around the corner, all cocky and patronizing. Like good little boys, Jacob and Eldon both snapped to attention, but she just sat there and caught her breath. Of course he heard her shriek… But to come investigate himself? Where did he get the nerve?

"Don't make me ask twice," Monroe cautioned with his thick, southern drawl. "You've been playing with your mama's crystals again. You should know better by now." He reached down and snatched them from the floor, his expression torn between affection and discipline. "So what did you see?"

Hesitating, Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Thomas. I saw someone mutilate him."

Silence… She could picture Eldon and Jacob glancing at each other, no doubt baffled by the name, while Monroe crossed his arms. He didn't frighten her, but given her youth, he had the advantage, and nothing frustrated her more.

"Thomas…" He eventually murmured. "Oh… That Yankee boy we caught you playing with…" Elizabeth bristled. "I can't say I'm sorry, sweetheart. You know he's beneath you. A vulgar wannabe who's in way too deep. He deserves what he gets."

Blood was rushing to her head, making her dizzy. "If we don't help him," she said, cold and contentious. "You will never again know peace. I swear."

The slap came forcefully, casting her against the white porch railing. Her eyes finally stung with tears and she desperately sought out Jacob's face. But no… Not even he would risk his daddy's wrath to defend her. The coward.

"I won't tolerate your insolence," Monroe said, perfectly calm, drawing her gaze back to him. "You are a daughter in the upper echelons of a great and noble family, and you will start acting like one. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir," she whispered mechanically, leaning back against the white posts, staring sullenly at the floorboard. A coiled strand of hair slipped over her face as she fancied lashing out at Monroe like a snake, fangs bared. Such retaliation would no doubt mean disaster, but at this point, what did she have to lose?

One day…

One day soon…

 **SPN**

 **(Lily Dale, New York … Tuesday, September 21, 2004)**

Fourteen years later, Elizabeth Styne found herself practically alone in the world, wretched, miserable and hungry for retribution—the sins of her uncle were not easily forgiven. Such malice, however, did not promote the friendly and docile image she sought to adopt, and so she made every effort to conceal it with a gentle countenance—after all, beauty and charm both served her well.

Having just changed out of her Gypsy costume, she wore a simple white camisole beneath a pink blazer with bedazzled jeans. Fairly casual given her elaborate hairdo—fit for prom—but she didn't have the patience for a complete makeover. It was nearing midnight, and after such a tedious day, she deserved a beer. So, as usual, she hastened over to Ralph's, the least likely place to find tourists, and settled in at the bar.

Fortunately, the crowd was light, even by Ralph's standards. A few local boys were at the billiard table, and some truckers were eating ribs in the corner booth. Dressed as she was, Elizabeth knew she had their attention, but so what? Flirting kept her sharp, and if any of them tried anything too wanton, she could think of multiple ways to object.

On the other hand, when a dark and handsome stranger appeared ten minutes later, two seats down, Elizabeth couldn't help but check him out. He must have been around Eldon's age, with a face that more than made up for the worn-out clothes under his military field jacket. Like Jacob, he carried himself with unflinching resolve, strength and vigilance, and despite her reservations, Elizabeth approved.

"Evening," he said to mostly to Ralph, but also with a sidelong smile in her direction. Incredibly, it lacked any trace of solicitation. "I'll have what she's having." Polite. Nothing more. How… odd…

"Long day?" she asked, hoping to make conversation as Ralph wordlessly poured him a beer. However, he seemed reluctant to respond, his hazel-green eyes shifting uncertainly from her decked-out hair down to the outrageous ring on her hand—the one piece of her costume she never removed. It displayed her most precious rose quartz crystal, and it seemed to trigger all sorts of alarm bells in the stranger's mind.

"You know," he said after a pause. "Normally, a girl like you would drive me wild. But, uh… I only came to Lily Dale to meet up with my dad. Haven't seen him in weeks, and we've got some catching up to do. He should be here any minute. Besides, I'm not exactly 'into' all that psychic spoon-bending crap… Sorry."

Was he actually jilting her? Elizabeth leaned her elbow on the bar and squinted at him. "Well, that doesn't sound like skepticism… That sounds like indignation." She caught sight of the small, ugly amulet around his neck and, trusting her instincts, made a quick guess. "You're a believer. You've seen things. That's the only reason you can't stand obnoxious charlatans."

He smirked, mildly amused and evidently warming up to her, despite himself. "That's pretty good…" Taking a sip from his glass, he studied her thoughtfully. Then, "I'm Dean. Dean Winchester. What's your name?"

She offered her sweetest smile. "Elizabeth Lavenza." No sense in sharing her actual identity. "Now then… Why don't we take a look? On the house?" Sliding closer to him, she beckoned for his hand. "You can't just insult a girl's trade and not let her vindicate herself." Normally, the thought of 'one more reading' after a busy, mind-numbing day would leave her aggravated, but something about Dean made her curious.

"Yeah, what the hell?" He gave in, yielding his palm with a challenge on his face, as if daring her to play him. Silly boy.

She glanced down, observing not only his lines, but also his fingerprints—every last detail—the color of his skin, the movement of his bones, the shape of a wayward scar… He wasn't wrong about most of the fortune-tellers in this town. Frauds… But she had more knowledge and practical experience than the lot of them combined, and divination was her specialty.

"Let's start with the basics, shall we?" She felt the familiar rush of an imminent trance and welcomed it openly. "Your life has been marked by tragedy and violence since your early childhood… shaping you into the warrior you are today… cunning… and capable… You love your family more than life itself, but fate has torn you between your father's approval and your bond with your brother… You desire reconciliation, but deep down, you fear nothing can span the rift dividing them… and it torments you."

Dean yanked his hand free, snapping her from the trance, and they stared at each other, pale and breathless. He looked sick, and she was equally shocked—caught off guard by the sudden and profound revelation that crept its way to the surface. "You're a legacy."

"A what?" He failed to keep the wariness out of his voice.

"A legacy," she said again. "Offspring of an ancient, noble lineage…" The Men of Letters, to be precise… Elizabeth's heart quickened at the implications. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

Clearly not. He was at a loss for words.

"Dean." A weathered old man in a leather jacket chose that moment to interrupt, appearing behind them with impressive stealth. Dean's father, no doubt, and also a legacy—that, or the Men of Letters were really slumming it these days. They _were_ getting harder to track down…

"Dad…" With a manly hug, the two momentarily forgot Elizabeth, who shied away from the elder in mounting dread. Why did she recognize him? Those broad shoulders… That robust face… Two haunted eyes… She had seen him before… But where?

Thomas!

She was staring at the hunter responsible for her soulmate's suffering. No question about it. Dean's father… She would never forget the savagery her crystals unveiled all those years ago. What were the odds? A hunter… and a legacy…

Conscious of the threat he posed, Elizabeth made the desperate decision to retreat, and thanks to her family's own skill-sets, she managed to slip from her enemy's field of perception with minimal effort. Blending into the shadows, she withdrew from the bar, fled outside, and wrenched a phone from her pocket. Shakily, she dialed Eli's number.

Several rings later, he answered with a growl. "Who is this!? You have any idea what time it is!?"

"Shut up, Eli," she snapped, too frantic for pleasantries. "I need to speak with Uncle Monroe. Now!"

"Lilibet?" Concern replaced displeasure as her old nickname rolled off his tongue. She was a runaway, and they both knew Monroe couldn't abide runaways. Her homecoming was a top priority. "Are you certain?"

"I've never been more certain in my life," she promised him. "It's time to call a truce."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:** What's in store for the Winchesters? Please review!_


	2. The Treaty

**SPN**

 **(Lily Dale, New York … Tuesday, September 21, 2004)**

"She called me a legacy, dad!"

In the privacy of their motel room, Dean quickly dropped his guard—after weeks of solo work, it felt so good to finally be at John Winchester's side that he couldn't care less about his game face. Something wasn't right, and his instincts were usually top-notch—as they should be.

"Offspring of an ancient, noble lineage… The hell does that even mean?" He paced irritably while John sat by a desk with his journal. Neither knew what to make of the girl's vanishing act—she was obviously a professional… with something to hide. They questioned the bartender, but he wasn't particularly helpful.

" _What can I say? She might look all cute and innocent, but she's the real deal. Scary, too, if you catch her on a bad night."_

Figures they'd meet the one legitimate fortune-teller in all of Lily Dale. And between cases! Was it too much to ask for a week of R&R? "Son of a bitch."

John sighed, gesturing for Dean to calm down. "We'll figure it out, just like we always do. You said she called herself Elizabeth Lavenza? I swear I've heard that name before." Frowning, he pulled another book from his bag and flipped to the index.

Great, Dean thought to himself. More research. But he kept his mouth shut and crossed his arms, waiting for more instructions. That girl… How was it possible for her to ascertain so much about his life simply by staring at his hand? It didn't make any damn sense—even by their standards. She knew things… Somehow she managed to express emotions he dared not put into words… just by staring at his hand… It sucked.

John, meanwhile, remained perfectly at ease, more curious than anything else. It took a lot to rattle his nerves, and Dean knew he wasn't about to let a twenty-year-old blonde palm-reader upset him. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

Twenty minutes later, John had out his cell phone. "Jim? … Yeah. Listen, you ever run into a young lady named Elizabeth Lavenza? She's currently working as a Lily Dale fortune-teller." Dean could barely make out their old friend's voice on the other end, but heard enough to know he wasn't pleased by the late-night interrogation. John smirked. "Mind asking around for me? We've got some questions… Thanks."

That done, he dropped the phone and caught Dean's gaze. "Not much else we can do till morning. Best to get some sleep."

"Easier said than done," Dean grumbled. It took him awhile to pinpoint what really bothered him about the girl. After all, she didn't strike him as an evil monster… and for a town as "spiritual" as Lily Dale, nothing in the news hinted at supernatural activity. All was right in Chautauqua County. No need for hunters…

"Dad," he said, sitting on the bed adjacent to John's desk. "I know you were thinking it, cause I thought it too, but there's no way she B.S.'d all that. She knew things… She knew about Sam!" When John nearly launched off his chair, Dean swiftly backpedaled. "Not like that. She didn't know his name or anything… Just that I have a brother and… God, this sounds so lame out loud."

As John settled back down, Dean ran a hand through his short hair. "What I mean is, she called me a legacy… And she hinted that it's a big deal… She could know more about our family than we do ourselves. Hell, what if this has something to do with your dad's disappearance? What if this has something to do with mom's death?"

"You're letting her get to you, Dean," John cautioned him gently. "That's dangerous."

He had a point. Dean tried to collect himself, trusting his father's judgment, but the anxiety must have lingered on his face, because John leaned in sympathetically.

"All right, you listen to me," he said, meaning business. "People who use phrases like 'ancient, noble lineage' are completely full of it. They're entitled bigots who think they're so special cause they have a nice family tree. Well, they're not special. They're flesh and blood, just like the rest of us, understand?"

"Yes sir," Dean managed weakly.

John nodded. "Good. Cause here's the important thing… It doesn't matter what our heritage is. You let someone define you that way, you're letting them manipulate you. Generally to service their needs, not yours. Cause believe me, they always have their own agenda. You want to know who you are? You're my son. You're Sammy's brother. And you're a damn good hunter. Don't let some blonde chick tell you otherwise."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now get some sleep. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow."

 **SPN**

As it happened, their only trail went cold long before daybreak. Elizabeth wasn't prone to waste time and skipped town as soon as she found an accessible car. Heading southwest, she ditched it in Ohio where she met up with Eldon. He brought her the rest of the way home on the family jet, warning her not to try Monroe's patience. He might accept her peace offering, but only if she demonstrated the proper respect. Naturally.

Hours later, she found herself in the foyer of the Shreveport mansion, facing a grand spiral staircase crowned with a chandelier. Nostalgia made her cringe, and she braced herself for the displeasure of her uncle. No one could protect her—Eldon said her parents left for Geneva months ago, Jacob had business in San Francisco, and with Eli trying to garner favor for his own advancement through the ranks, she was on her own, possibly in a heap of trouble.

When Monroe promptly appeared on the upper landing, he seemed remarkably relaxed—or treacherous, depending on how you looked at it, like a cat toying with its prey. A little older and grayer, no doubt, but as polished and vigorous as ever. "Is that my darling Lilibet? Why, it's been so long, I hardly recognize you."

Averting her eyes, Elizabeth could sense him evaluating her appearance—too uncouth for a proper southern belle. If only he knew about her Gypsy costume. "Hello, Uncle Monroe." Tentatively, she met his gaze. "It's so good to be home."

"Excellent," he said, flashing a silvery smile. He proceeded down the stairs and held out his arms, waiting for her embrace. She didn't move. For a good ten seconds, they stared at each other. Off to the right, Eldon groaned, pressing a hand against the back of his head in exasperation. Finally, Monroe dropped the matter and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, sweetheart. You're as temperamental as Cyrus, and he's just starting first grade. You remember Cy, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she said, picturing her youngest cousin. First grade, already? "Please… I don't want to fight anymore… I… I'm sorry I ran away. It was immature and selfish of me, and I know that now. There are better, more productive ways to solve our differences, and I believe we can come to a civilized arrangement that puts all this behind us, if you're willing to hear me out."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you said as much on the phone. And I'm listening, aren't I? You said you found something valuable… something that will convince me to bless your little fling with that Yankee boy. Honestly, I find it hard to believe there's anything in the world that could change my mind in that regard."

"I met a legacy," Elizabeth parried, cutting neatly through his hauteur. "And not just one… He has a daddy… And a brother…" At that moment, nothing could have satisfied her more than the surprise on Monroe's face.

Even Eldon stepped forward, wide-eyed, watching their exchange in open disbelief. She glanced from him back to her uncle with a small, smug smile. "I'll tell you his name," she said sweetly. "But in return, I want your word that Thomas and I can have a future together. A long… healthy… happy future."

Monroe hesitated, failing to hide his temptation. He licked his lips. "Legacies… Are you absolutely sure?"

"I read his palm."

Ever so slowly, the high and mighty patriarch of the great Styne family conceded to the wishes of his niece. "Well, all right then. I give you my word. Three legacies in exchange for old Doc Benton."

She was pressing her luck, but what the hell? "Two legacies," she countered. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eldon shake his head—after all, Monroe wasn't one for negotiations. This might spoil everything. "Just the boys. Their daddy… Let's just say he and Thomas have history… so I want his heart to replace the one Thomas lost."

Monroe scoffed. "That's real cute, but no. Legacies are too rare… too precious… We can't afford to waste any of them… However… I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send Eldon up north with some of our finest organs, and I'll have him make Benton good as new. How does that sound?" Elizabeth glowered, so he quickly added, "You know how involved these rituals are, so whatever that man did to your boyfriend, he'll still pay for it with his life. I can promise you that."

A beat. "Fine," she said at last. "We have a deal." This time, when Monroe held out his arms, she readily returned his embrace. Pressing her head against his chest, she said, "The legacy's name is Dean Winchester. I didn't catch his daddy's name, but he's the hunter who tore Thomas apart."

"A hunter?" Monroe asked, stroking her hair. "My, how times change. Don't worry, Lilibet. Hunters like to talk. We'll find them."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Well, things are just getting started! I'm so excited about this fic, and I hope everyone's enjoying it._

 _ **Next Chapter:** We'll catch up with Sam. Please review!_


	3. Pseudonyms

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thanks for putting up with Elizabeth's perspective for this long. Now we can get back to the Winchesters, because they're really the focus of this story. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!_

 **SPN**

 **(Stanford University, California … Friday, September 24, 2004)**

For the first time in his entire life, Sam Winchester didn't want summer to end. He never imagined meeting someone like Jessica Moore, someone who so easily made him forget the nightmares of childhood and think only of his dreams for the future. She _was_ his dream for the future. Smart. Beautiful. Understanding.

They spent all their free time together—which really wasn't that impressive, since they both had rent to pay—but it still felt like a perfect summer romance, and it was more than Sam ever hoped for. As much as he loved school, if Jess felt the urge to drop out and tour the country—not that she would—he just might follow her. Thank God for Brady bringing them together.

Presently, they sat near the White Memorial Fountain, along with countless other students, and compared schedules. Heading into his junior year, Sam was looking at some pretty intense upper level courses, but that didn't faze him. Given his mood right now, he could conquer the world.

"I still can't believe you agreed to Art History," Jess said about the one elective they had together. "You don't expect it to be some walk in the park, do you?"

"Oh, trust me, I've heard all the horror stories," Sam assured her, making a face. "Zach made sure of that when I registered. Don't worry." He kissed the top of her head. "I won't let you fall behind."

"Ha-ha," she quipped, playfully pushing him back. He smiled, admiring how radiant her hair was in the afternoon sunlight. "Seriously, though, have you seen the size of that textbook?" Like he could forget hauling it home from the bookstore.

Gradually, as they kept up their banter, Sam became aware of someone watching them. Two full years of freedom, and he still couldn't shake his father's training. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a powerfully-built, clean-shaven man who must have been around thirty. Judging by his fancy professional attire, he could have been a Business Grad, but that didn't explain his interest in Sam or Jess. What did he want?

Whoever he was, he must have sensed Sam's apprehension and chose that moment to advance. His stride was long, confident and purposeful—much like Dean's. He might be a student, but the closer he came, the more Sam recognized the predatory glint in his pale blue eyes. It took considerable discipline to keep from standing… Don't alarm Jessica… Don't show fear…

On the one hand, he wasn't quite as tall as Sam, but then again, when did that ever make a difference? It never stopped his brother from pinning him to the ground, and this guy looked every bit as strong—if not stronger.

"Are you Sam Winchester?" he asked with a deep southern accent upon reaching them. Jess glanced up in surprise while Sam immediately feigned confusion.

"Do I know you?"

"We haven't had the pleasure." He extended his arm with an amiable smile. "I'm Robert Walton."

Conscious of his girlfriend's presence, Sam slowly got up and took the proffered hand. "How's it going?" he asked as politely as possible, noting the man's tight grip. He held on just a second too long, which never boded well, before turning to wink at Jess. It was so blatant that even she sensed something off about it and furrowed her brow.

"I've heard a lot about you, Sam," he proceeded to say. "Your daddy's a mighty fine hunter. You're lucky to have him."

Sam clenched his jaw. _Hunter!_ Few civilians knew the significance of that word… but then, few hunters wore tailored suits with expensive ties… so what did that make Robert Walton? "You know my dad?"

He started to reply, but quickly reconsidered. Then, glancing from Sam to Jess and back again, said, "Actually, it's quite the story. Your old man's something else." He chuckled. "Why don't I buy you a drink and tell you all about it?" Somehow, despite his affability, he made the question sound more like a veiled threat than a request.

Sam shook his head. "No… Sorry, but… I don't have the slightest interest in my dad's hunting stories. In fact…" He reached for Jess' hand. "We should go."

"Yeah," she agreed, well aware of the strain between him and his father. As she jumped to her feet, he tried steering her away, but Robert cut them off.

"Now I insist," he said softly, reminding Sam of an old high school bully. "It's not everyday I have the honor of meeting a boy like you."

The hell did that mean? Sam stood his ground, grateful for the swarm of students around them—though none seemed aware of his current predicament—and glared at his strange new antagonist. "You want to make a scene?" he asked just as softly. "Back off! And stay the hell away from us."

For a moment, he thought things would escalate. Robert had that familiar look of pent-up aggression… but he easily controlled it and eventually stood down. "Very well," he said, holding his hands out in resignation. "Have it your way." Nodding at Jess, he took a few steps back. "Nice meeting you, Sam." Then he turned and marched off.

 _A boy like me…? What, a runaway hunter…?_ Sam slid his arm around Jess' waist, pulled her close, and bristled at the designation, 'boy.' He was twenty-one for crying out loud!

Once Robert disappeared around the corner of the bookstore, Sam glanced at Jess apologetically, and to her credit, she looked more protective than distressed. "Sorry about that. I'm telling you, my family has issues."

"Yeah, but…" she hesitated, searching for the right words to describe what she just witnessed. "That was messed up." She didn't know the half of it—just that Sam came from an itinerant family with no place to call home and a father who always treated him like an unruly child—nothing unspeakable… just unpleasant… at least till now. "You expect me to believe that creep's a friend of your father's? I don't think so. Not by any rational definition."

"Tell me about it…" They began moving away from the fountain—away from Robert—and Sam considered calling his brother. Dean would know… and then immediately inform their dad… And John made it clear that once Sam left for school, he wouldn't be welcomed back… But… what if he found himself in danger? Even then? Maybe… But why risk getting Dean in trouble?

"You're not going to brush this off, are you?" Jess asked tentatively as they ambled toward Tresidder Union. "I mean… I don't know what that guy's problem is, but you don't think we've seen the last of him, do you?"

No, and Sam could appreciate her instincts, but how to reassure her? He could only hide so much of his past without raising her suspicions, and he didn't want her questioning their relationship. He liked her. A lot. So… How exactly did normal young men respond to thugs like Robert Walton? Did they go straight to the police? He couldn't go to the police… not if this had anything to do with hunting…

Well… He might let her in just enough to keep her out… Tell the truth, just not all of it… Lies of omission were really the most effective… And so he found himself digging through his pocket for his phone. "Mind if I make a quick call?"

"Please," she encouraged him.

Wondering how difficult it would be to have a layered conversation with a hunter on one end and a civilian on the other, Sam dialed the only person he could think of to rely on. Bobby Singer.

"Hello?" the gruff old man answered on the second ring and, despite everything, Sam felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.

"Hey Bobby, it's me…"

"Sam!" In the past, Sam always thought Bobby favored Dean, but right now, no one could mistake the fondness he had for the youngest Winchester. "It's good to hear your voice, son. How's college treating you?"

"Could be better, actually," Sam confessed, choosing his words more carefully than ever. "Listen… I, uh… I'm on campus right now with my girlfriend…" Better let Bobby know he couldn't talk freely…

"Girlfriend!?"

"Yeah, and it's weird… We were just ambushed by someone claiming to know my dad… Robert Walton. Have you ever heard of him?"

A beat. "I don't think so… What's a friend of your dad's doing at Stanford?"

"Good question… To be honest, it's kind of freaking us out…"

"You need back-up?"

"Maybe… I don't know…"

"I'm just a plane-ride away…"

Sam nodded gratefully. "That might be a good idea…" After all, if Robert Walton really meant business, he wouldn't be so bold about it unless he knew he had the advantage… It wouldn't hurt Sam to have reinforcements, and better Bobby than anyone else from his old life.

"Consider it done…" Another beat. "You know, I hate to say it, but… if this guy's connected to your daddy, you might want to give him a call as well…"

And just like that, Sam tensed up again. "I can't, Bobby… You know I can't…"

"Trust me, boy, whatever he said to you… doesn't mean he won't raise hell to keep you safe."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, he's got a funny way of showing it."

Bobby scoffed. "Course he does. He's a damn fool. Had to go through Pastor Jim to ask me a question about some fortune-teller out east. Speaking of which, the name Elizabeth Lavenza ring any bells?"

Sam blinked, following Jess' lead when she took a seat at an empty table. "Elizabeth… Lavenza?"

 _Elizabeth Lavenza?_

 _Robert Walton?_

 _Elizabeth Lavenza?_

Damn… He thought back to high school… His senior English class… A major portion of the grade came from an eight-page book report on nineteenth-century Romantic literature. It was kind of a big deal, and Sam chose to concentrate on the one novel he thought might interest his family… Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ —which was widely considered Gothic Science Fiction, but it still qualified as Romantic, and Sam easily scored a 100.

What were the odds he'd meet a Robert Walton around the same time his dad raised questions about an Elizabeth Lavenza?

"Oh my God…" He tried to keep the worry out of his voice. "Bobby… They're both characters from _Frankenstein_! Robert Walton and Elizabeth Lavenza! They're pseudonyms!"

"What?" Jess mouthed in bewilderment even as Sam's phone went dead—he recoiled at the abrupt disconnection, staring at the device in disbelief. Great. His worlds were colliding, and for the first time in two years, he felt the full breadth of his isolation—his vulnerability. Bobby might just be a "plane-ride away," but that plane ride would still take several hours, and God only knew where John and Dean were… Somewhere out east?

With a deep, calming breath, Sam looked at Jess—this must all seem so crazy to her… and yet, she met his gaze steadily, confused but mindful of his urgency. He could see how much she wanted to help him. "Can I borrow your cell?"

"Of course," she said, drawing it from her bag. Bobby was right; he had to call his dad, whether he liked it or not.

Unfortunately, he wouldn't be reaching anyone on Jess' phone—no signal. Someone really wanted to keep them in the dark. But why? And how?

"Sam…" Jess shook her head as he glumly returned it to her. "What the hell is going on?"

"Honestly? I don't know."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:** Who is Robert Walton? And will he get what he want? Please review!_


	4. Jacob Styne

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter's a little intense, so brace yourselves! And in case you're wondering, there is a lot of magic at play here. I'm assuming that, even though the Stynes do not have the Book of the Damned, they still know their fair share of spells._

 **SPN**

 **(California … Friday, September 24, 2004)**

They drove north from Palo Alto towards San Francisco as evasively as possible. Since they had no idea when Bobby would arrive, they had time to spare, and Sam wanted to make sure they weren't being followed. To that end, he drove in circles along the back roads when he wasn't jumping from 101 to 280. It prolonged what should have been a relatively short drive, but so what? As much as he hated to admit it, he was scared, and his training took over.

After considering his options back in the union building, Sam had sought out a land line to make a few phone calls. The land line worked, but every number he dialed was busy, and he couldn't get through to anyone. Not his dad, not Dean, not Bobby, not even Pastor Jim. Definitely a red flag. Something was wrong.

He couldn't just leave Jessica on her own… Robert Walton—or whatever the hell his real name was—had seen them together, and he might target her to get to Sam… Neither could they stay in town, where they might be ambushed again… Best to hightail it out of there, find somewhere to hide, and wait for Bobby.

Much to his astonishment, Jess proved cooperative. Granted, she didn't like the idea of skipping town so close to the start of term, but nevertheless, she followed his lead. When he asked why, she said, "I don't know, Sam… Call it spider-sense or something… That guy gave me the creeps, but he didn't actually threaten us, so try explaining it to the cops…"

She was perfect. However, the more she saw of his evasive tactics—such as signaling left, then turning right—the more she stared at him. Finally, she couldn't help herself. "What's going on, Sam? Seriously! Where'd you learn to shake a tail like this? What's the deal with _Frankenstein_? And what does your father's hunting have to do with it?"

Given their circumstances, it wasn't fair to hide the truth from her… But if she freaked out and bolted, she'd make easy prey… He had to protect her… And so he found himself saying, "Look, Jess… You have to understand… My dad's not a bad guy… It's just that my mom died when I was a baby, and he never recovered from it… Everyone said the fire was an accident, an electrical short in the ceiling or something, but dad… He thought it was arson. Murder."

She inhaled sharply, eyes wide, but didn't interrupt.

"So of course he grew angry," he continued, his grip tight on the steering wheel. "And he wanted payback, but didn't know who to blame… So he took up hunting. He was a marine back in Vietnam, and he taught me and Dean everything he could to prepare us for anything life might throw at us… and I'm not talking about balancing a checkbook."

"I'm so sorry," Jess whispered.

Sam nodded. "We were constantly on the move… Dad gained a reputation with other hunters for being… highly skilled… like a force of nature. A lot of people admire him for it, but just as many resent him, and I… I can't live that life anymore." He shot her a sidelong glance… "I know how crazy this sounds… Believe me, when this is all over, if you want to trade me in for someone with less baggage, I'd get it…"

"No," she objected, still staring at him. With the sun setting to their left, she was aglow, and Sam could never express how much she meant to him. "After all that, you're still the nicest, most considerate man I've ever met… And you're hot, so really it's a win-win." Despite everything, they both smiled. "We all have baggage, Sam. I'm not afraid of yours."

 **SPN**

They pulled up at the Crystal Springs rest area to take a quick break and grab some food—Jess had to use the bathroom and Sam wanted to stretch his legs. As they clambered out of the car, he peered over his shoulder for followers, but they seemed to be in the clear. That said, it was getting dark out, and he didn't want to stay too long.

"I'll just be a sec," Jess promised as they split up. "Buy me a coffee?"

"Yeah," he said, watching her take off through a small cluster of motorists—at least they weren't alone. He made his way inside the facility where more people were going about their business. Everything looked normal. Breathing deeply, he tried focusing on what to eat… Sandwiches, preferably…

Five minutes later, he was back in the parking lot where Jess stood waiting, no worse for wear. They took the opportunity to kiss, making Sam flush, and then they were on the road again. It almost felt too easy, and as traffic slowly started to abate, he began second-guessing himself. Of course nothing would happen at the rest area… Too many witnesses… But now… 280 was becoming abnormally quiet…

Just when the thought crossed his mind, the car lurched and sputtered roughly into the emergency lane. Gasping, Jess planted her hand against the glove compartment while Sam wrestled with the steering wheel. Crap. He didn't know the first thing about fixing cars—that was Dean's job—and to be honest, he doubted this was a coincidence.

As they jerked to a stop, Jess gawked nervously at Sam. "What just happened?"

He ignored her, his gaze fixed on the blue cargo van parked several yards ahead of them. No rear windows… Crap… "Jess…"

All at once, the van's front and back doors swung open and out poured five brutish men. The driver… Robert Walton.

"Oh my God," Jess breathed when she saw him. This couldn't be happening. Not now… Not like this…

"Sam!" Robert shouted, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "I'm impressed! Your daddy taught you well! If I weren't such a professional, you might have escaped! Now why don't you come out here nice and slow? I just want to talk!" Sam cringed—judging by the bastard's sneer, he actually wanted to gloat.

"We have to do something," Jess exclaimed, trying not to panic.

"The car's dead," Sam replied, just as upset. "I think they sabotaged it back at the rest area." He could try fighting them… Five to one… Dean could manage it… But Sam wasn't nearly as powerful, and to make things worse, he was out of practice. Still, he had to try… if only to give Jess a head start. "I need you to make a run for it. I'll hold them off."

"What!?" She shook her head frantically. "No! That's insane!"

"We don't have all night, boy!" Robert kept shouting. "Trust me! You're not going anywhere!" He nodded at two of his henchmen, and they both started forward in fierce anticipation. They were after Sam… But what would they do with Jess? He looked at her desperately.

"Go!"

She bit her lip, but with two thugs fast approaching, she no longer argued. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she dashed out of the car, and Sam followed suit. But while she sprinted away, he stood his ground. "You want me?" he growled. "Come and get me." Adrenaline coursed through his body as he waited for the bastards to strike first.

They charged together, attempting to tackle him, but he side-stepped, kneeing one in the stomach before cuffing the other's head. They recovered quickly, retaliating with a series of angry hooks. Somehow, he managed to evade them and even elbowed one guy in the face. Like riding a bicycle…

From the corner of his eye, Sam watched the other two henchmen start after Jessica. Frantic, he scurried to intercept them, plowing one against the other with enough force to make them stumble, but not fall. Somehow, they maintained their footing and glared at him in annoyance. By now, the first two were in pursuit—Sam was effectively surrounded. Not good… Worst position to be in…

Drawing the only weapon he dared bring to school, a curved blade that looked more like a claw than a knife, Sam went on the offensive. Had to be quick and precise. He slashed at one guy's throat, but he jumped away. Another lunged from behind—Sam spun out of his reach and kicked the next guy in the groin—which didn't seem to faze him. Sam followed through by aiming the blade at his chest, but someone caught his wrist and yanked him back before he made contact.

He found himself facing a man who matched his height—not something he saw everyday—and before he could stop it, the man knocked him down with a powerful head-butt. Blinding lights danced around his vision, leaving him in a momentary daze—someone snatched the blade from his hand—but he shook it off and swept his legs around to unbalance his assailant. Then he rolled back to his feet and planted an uppercut on someone else's chin.

The fight seemed to drag on. Though it couldn't have been more than a minute or two, Sam felt the sweat on his face and the fire in his lungs. He wouldn't be able to keep this up forever. These people… No matter how many blows he landed, they just wouldn't back off—it wasn't normal… He started to wonder if they were toying with him.

Where was the traffic? This section of the interstate shouldn't be so desolate—especially at this hour. Why had no one come to his rescue? Not that they would do much good against these freaks… The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that they were supernatural… and he was in a world of trouble.

So it seemed inevitable when the tall guy finally struck him with an aggressive backhand, throwing him forcefully to the ground. It didn't hurt quite like the head-butt, and yet Sam's body dragged, exhausted, as he shakily pushed to his hands and knees. It would probably mean defeat, but there wasn't anything he could do—he just had to catch his breath.

Sure enough, in that moment of weakness, an arm snaked around his neck and squeezed. Robert Walton. Without slackening his grip, he hauled Sam backwards, dragging him several feet. It didn't matter how wildly Sam writhed against him, bucking his legs uselessly—the man maintained his chokehold with enough strength to rival John Winchester. "I tried to be nice," he whispered in Sam's ear, his southern accent dripping with condescension. "I tried to make this easy on you… so you have no one to blame but yourself." Gasping and unable to break free, Sam could only watch as the four henchmen recovered from the violent encounter. Then, grinning at each other, they split up, two returning to the van and two stalking Jess.

"My real name's Jacob Styne," Robert told him offhandedly. "Sorry for the deception, but it seemed appropriate at the time. Now that we've got you to ourselves, we can actually get to know each other." Sam struggled to breathe as he fought to dislodge the son of a bitch, but Robert—Jacob—wasn't easily shaken. If anything, he tightened his grip. "Settle down, Sam. I don't want to hurt you. Not yet, anyway."

The two henchmen were sauntering back from the van with several large bundles of nylon rope—a sight that made Sam squirm. He kicked as furiously as possible, but restrained by Jacob, he didn't have the leverage he needed to stop them from grabbing his feet. Within seconds, they managed to pull off his shoes and socks. Then, forcing his legs together, they got to work binding his ankles and knees.

Sam moaned as they cinched the ropes tighter than necessary. Meanwhile, Jacob whispered unsettling encouragement in his ear. "That's it… Just relax… We're going to take good care of you, boy…" Satisfied with their knots, the henchmen signaled Jacob to let go—he released Sam only long enough to pin him face first on the ground.

Head spinning, Sam grimaced as they manhandled him out of his jacket, stripping him down to just his charcoal T-shirt. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?" They yanked his arms behind his back, crossed his wrists, and fastened them together with fearsome expertise. Sam wasn't sure if he'd be able to free himself, and the thought truly sickened him.

"We need your help with something," Jacob explained, lazily patting him down, searching for any useful possessions—phone, wallet, pocket knife… Then, he rolled Sam on his back and grabbed his chin, jerking his face to the left and right as if checking for injuries. Sam seethed at the treatment. "Now, I don't want you to take this personally… It's just that your family's special." His hand slid up Sam's cheek and brushed his hair from his eyes. "And between us, you're the best one, college boy. Youngest. Smartest. Gifted. A real treasure."

In the distance, they heard Jess shrieking. Sam's blood ran cold and he tried twisting away from Jacob, only to be wrenched back. "Please. Let her go. She doesn't have anything to do with this."

Jacob smirked. "You know, you were right not to send her home this afternoon. She's clearly your weak spot. The way you were ogling her back on campus… Why wouldn't we take advantage of that?" Sam renewed his efforts to break free, but the ropes were too secure, and his captor chuckled. "Don't feel too bad. Nothing you could have done would've made a difference, and I mean that. After all, we have magic on our side, and you… You're just trying to live an ordinary life. It's kind of sad, really."

"Sam!"

The two other henchmen had seized Jessica and were now leading her roughly towards the van, each one holding an arm. She struggled between them, but the sight of Sam's predicament made her falter. "Leave him alone!"

Jacob sighed, pointing idly at Sam's discarded socks. "Someone shut her up."

"No!" Sam watched in horror as they scrambled to obey. Moments later, they had her wrists tied behind her back, a gag stuffed deeply in her mouth, and a handkerchief holding it snugly in place. Sam fumed. "You son of a bitch!"

"Mind your tongue, boy," Jacob warned him. "Or we'll do the same to you."

Sam shook his head, anger getting the best of him. "Go to hell." They glared at each other, one defiant and one sinister. Whatever the next few hours had in store, Sam realized he was screwed, but he had to keep from panicking. Don't show fear… That's what dad always said…

Sensing the desperation behind his captive's bravado, Jacob once again stroked his cheek, this time more maliciously. "All right, settle down. We have a long journey ahead of us, and you need your strength." Sam groaned, twisting uselessly against his restraints. Jacob sneered. "Pay attention, boy. You and I are going in the van with Rhett and Mason. Now, Earl and Freddie? They're going to clean up this mess and sit tight somewhere safe with your girlfriend. Understand? As long as I check in every couple of hours, they'll know not to harm her. You cooperate, she'll even get out of this alive. I promise."

"Yeah, and what's that worth?" Sam asked, much to Jacob's amusement.

"I guess we'll find out." He ruffled Sam's hair. "Time to go."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:** John and Dean learn about the abduction. Please review!_


	5. Bait

**SPN**

 **(Massachusetts … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

Ever since John offered Dean the Impala in favor of an '86 Sierra Grande, these road trips had grown slow and tedious. At first, he treated it like a rite of passage, basking in his new-found pride and independence. But then… Sam went off to school and before Dean knew it, he was alone. Now, as he followed his dad along some country road in Massachusetts, he would have given the world for someone's companionship—that is, as long as he could keep the car…

They were currently on their way to a small town near Amherst where John wanted to investigate a series of grave robbings he thought might be the work of a ghoul. Should be a simple case; ghouls weren't exactly formidable. One good shot to the head, and it was light's out, no sweat. Lately, John trusted Dean to handle such hunts on his own, but this time, they both wanted to double team it. Their little unsolved mystery from Lily Dale weighed too heavily on their minds, and they weren't quite ready to split up again after so many weeks apart.

Raising the volume of his music, Dean tried to lift his spirits with Metallica. Tried to block out thoughts of fortune-tellers and obscure references to the Winchester legacy. Like dad said, it wasn't relevant to the here-and-now. Still… it wasn't everyday they were given the slip, and Elizabeth's words kept echoing in his mind.

" _You're a legacy… Do you have any idea what this means?"_

Something wasn't right… He couldn't put his finger on it, but the agitation he remembered in her voice—the shock laced with excitement—followed by her subsequent disappearance did not bode well. Deep down, he knew they hadn't seen the last of her.

As Dean hummed along to the charged lyrics of a heated song, he barely noticed his phone start to ring. Catching it just in time, he whipped it up to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Dean. It's Bobby."

Great. Just when he thought things couldn't get worse.

Out of all their family friends, Bobby meant more to Dean than anyone. He was like a second father, as protective as John, and possibly more affectionate. Back in the day, he often encouraged the boys to play catch when they should have been training, and when tensions ran high, he had a way of digging through the crap straight to the heart of the matter. Unlike anyone else they knew, Bobby could challenge their dad's authority, and sometimes Dean blamed him for teaching Sam how to talk back… despite the fact that he also taught Dean how to referee… not that it did much good in the end.

What really hurt was the final blowout between the two old men. The last time Dean saw Bobby, he and John were ready to kill each other. Literally. Bobby even cocked his shotgun. Watching the two hunters he admired most in the world treat each other like that… It was as painful as watching Sam leave, and while Dean would never admit it, he was still reeling from that rejection…

"Dean?" Bobby asked, drawing him back to the present.

"Yeah. I'm here. What's going—?"

"Listen, boy, we have one hell of a problem on our hands and your dad's not answering his phone. Is he with you? I need to speak with him NOW." Something in his tone—panic?—warned Dean not to protest.

"One minute," he said with a frown, honking twice to signal his dad before pulling off the road near a guardrail by a ditch. He jumped out of the Impala as John took note and decelerated—the man might not pay attention to his phone, but he was always attuned to his son's performance. Crossing the distance between them, Dean volunteered his phone the moment John descended from the truck. "It's Bobby. Says there's an emergency."

John's perplexity quickly darkened to annoyance—he could hold a grudge as well as he could hunt—but he nevertheless took the call, ever the professional. "Bobby? What's wrong?" He listened carefully as their friend launched into a frantic account of their latest crisis—whatever that might be. Dean couldn't make out his words—just his tone, which continued to unnerve him.

"What!?" John snapped so suddenly and savagely that Dean fell back a step in surprise. Few things triggered such fury in his father. "When!?" He listened, running a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Sammy…" Dean's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his brother. "I knew something like this would happen! Why didn't he call me!?" Bobby gave some slick retort that John promptly ignored. "Where are you?" Bobby answered. "No, I've never heard of the bastard… _Frankenstein_ …? That doesn't make any sense. Any leads…? Damn it."

"Sammy…" Dean whispered, all the turmoil and resent that followed Sam's desertion two years ago instantly reverting back to steadfast concern. His little brother was his responsibility—his one responsibility—and now he was in some kind of trouble. Damn it.

Darting around the hood of the truck over to the passenger's side, Dean tore through the door and scavenged around for his dad's phone. There! Hidden haphazardly beneath John's jacket on the passenger's seat, on silent with three new voicemails. Pushing away from the road, Dean paced a few steps by the guardrail and dialed Sam's number. "Come on, Sammy… Pick up…"

After four agonizing rings, the line connected and Dean heard the douchiest southern drawl he could imagine. "Well, well, well… 'Bout time you called, Mr. Winchester."

Dean hesitated… Some asshole had his brother's phone… Oh hell no. "Who is this?" he asked in his most menacing voice. "Where's my brother?"

"Dean… My mistake… Hope you've got daddy's permission to be on his phone, boy."

"Well, aren't you a real son of a bitch?" Over his shoulder, Dean heard John promise to call Bobby back. He was on his way to assume command. Dean grimaced. "Is Sam alive?"

The bastard chuckled. "You know, I'd much rather have this conversation face-to-face. Where are you? Let's meet up."

"Dean," John said quietly, holding out his hand. For the briefest moment, Dean wanted to object—it was Sam they were talking about! But John knew that, and he was every bit as protective. If anyone could get the kid out of harm's way, it was him. So Dean took a deep breath and reluctantly surrendered the phone. John patted his shoulder in approval before focusing back on the problem. "This is John Winchester."

 **SPN**

"Mr. Winchester," Jacob cooed in delight, much to Sam's disgust.

They had driven straight through the night, heading southeast as far as he could tell—the dimly lit interior of the van's windowless cargo hold made it difficult to track their progress. Sam was kept tied up in the midst of countless wooden crates where it would be easy for his captors to conceal him with a well-placed tarp. He still wasn't gagged, but under the tall one, Rhett's careful supervision, that could change at a moment's notice.

At present, the van was sitting parked God knew where, gradually heating up as the sun filled the sky—which he didn't find comforting despite the late night drop in temperature. After all, jeans and a T-shirt weren't nearly sufficient to repel the cold, especially when he was barefoot. That said, he didn't anticipate roasting in an oven all afternoon, and somehow he doubted these guys would bother with the air conditioning. Bastards.

"Yes, I have your boy. He's safe," Jacob said, leaning lackadaisically against a crate with a twinkle in his eye. Meanwhile, Mason began digging through their rations for some jerky, which he passed out to Jacob and Rhett without the slightest regard for Sam. "Yes sir, we've got plans for him, so you can rest assured he won't be damaged. At least not for awhile."

Sam rolled his eyes and tried not to fidget—Rhett liked to check his rope work whenever he suspected an escape attempt, and he wasn't very gentle.

"Oh, you want to talk to him?" Jacob asked, feigning surprise before clucking his tongue. "I'm sorry, sir, but Sam here hasn't earned his phone privileges." Whatever John said in response had the desired effect, and Jacob consented. "Apologies… Your wish is my command." Pressing a small button, he knelt over Sam and stuck the phone in his face, smirking mischievously.

"Sammy?" John's curt voice could be heard by everyone in the van, making Sam flinch. Rhett's eyes lit up even as Mason mouthed the old nickname, testing it out. Just great.

"Dad, you're on speaker," Sam cautioned, wishing he could be anywhere else but here.

"Talk to me," John said, and for once, Sam didn't mind his authoritative manner—it meant he was on task, focused and treating the situation like a hunt. Good. When John Winchester went hunting, nothing in the world could stop him.

"Dad, they have my girlfriend, Jessica," he skipped to the most important part. "I don't know where they're keeping her, and if I try to get away, they're going to hurt her."

"Who are they?"

Before Sam could respond, Jacob pressed another button, terminating the call. They glanced at each other, and Jacob shrugged. "Oops. Forgot to mention we like keeping a low profile. All about secrecy these days. Best not to mention our names to anyone, understand? Sammy?" He squeezed Sam's knee before pushing back to his feet, and after swallowing a bite of jerky, he redialed John's number.

"Mr. Winchester," he said warmly. "Lost you there for a minute. I have to say, the cell service around here… Why don't we skip the pleasantries and get straight to business before something else interferes with our connection?" He nodded. "Good. Here's the deal. A few days ago your eldest met a cousin of mine. Elizabeth Lavenza. Well, she made quite the discovery… Yes sir, all three of you… I'd love to explain, but we don't have time. You see, Lilibet fancies an old friend of yours… Doc Benton? … Yeah, that's exactly what my father says. Naturally, we don't approve, but try telling her that…"

With a long-suffering sigh, Jacob continued. "My mission is to fetch Sammy… Bring him home, safe and sound… But the fact is, our plans for him… Our plans for you and Dean… They're long-term. See, we're a patient family; we can afford to wait… So if you do me one little favor, I'd be inclined to let him go… Give y'all a running start… It might take years for us to catch up… That's right… Here's the thing, as a reward for her discovery, my father promised Lilibet he'd bless her little romance with Doc Benton—even fix him up for her, and he's a man of his word. So we're not allowed to touch the bastard. But you… You can get rid of him. Permanently. Pull that off, and I'll make sure Sammy and his girlfriend manage to escape…"

Was he serious? Sam glanced suspiciously from Jacob over to Rhett and Mason—neither looked surprised by this turn of events. Were they actually willing to double-cross their own family? It sounded too good to be true. Doc Benton… Sam recognized the name. His dad hunted the guy years ago, back when he and Dean were still children.

Doc Benton was a nineteenth-century New England doctor who eventually gave up his practice to seek immortality… which he achieved, only to realize immortality left something to be desired… His body still aged, withering piece by piece, and to maintain his dexterity, he required routine transplants… So out of necessity, he became an organ thief, a murderer, and finally a monster. No hunter in the world would think twice about killing him—if that was even possible… He was immortal, after all… John's strategy had been to tear out his heart, but apparently that just slowed him down. He was still out there somewhere… The object of some fortune-teller's affections? Weird…

"That's right," Jacob was saying, pleased with John's response. "I can't help you with that, sir. You're the hunter. You figure it out… And do be quick. My father's expecting me to deliver the boy in the next few days. I can't stall forever… Oh, and this goes without saying, but just in case you have any crazy ideas about tracing this phone, we're gonna get rid of it at the end of this conversation… Don't worry. I'll be in touch… No sir, I already let you talk to him once and how did you repay me? By fishing for Intel. Won't make that mistake again… Too bad. You'll just have to hold up your end of the bargain and talk to him later. Do be careful, Mr. Winchester. We need you and Dean alive and healthy just as much as we need Sam."

On that note, Jacob dropped the phone on the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. Then, without missing a beat, he produced a second phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial. "Eldon," he said a moment later, shooting Sam an amused wink. "Head's up. I just got off the phone with John Winchester… Don't know if he fell for it or not, but there's a good chance he's heading your way with the other boy. Make sure you're ready to receive them."

"You son of a bitch." Sam shook his head and angrily tugged on his restraints, which only earned him more rope burn and Rhett's disapproval. The tall thug bore down on him and seized his neck in an aggressive display of dominance, squeezing just tightly enough to discourage Sam's resistance. It was the most frustrating experience he imagine—these bastards were setting a trap for his family, and he was helpless to prevent it.

"Don't get cocky, Eldon," Jacob advised, suddenly somber. "These Winchesters know what they're doing… It's impressive, really, and I don't want to hear you got yourself killed, understand? …Good. Then I'll see you in a few days." Hanging up, he quietly observed the scene in front of him. "Rhett… Let him go."

The thug obeyed, but not before baring his teeth like an animal. Sam averted his eyes, focusing on the broken pieces of his phone as Jacob considered what to do with him. Slowly, the man approached—he knelt down next to Sam and grabbed his chin. "Look at me, boy." His voice was quiet, but dangerous, and Sam met his gaze resentfully. "Try to relax. You're not doing yourself any favors by getting frisky."

"Yeah, well…" Sam shrugged. "How would you feel if someone threatened everyone you ever loved?"

"I get it," Jacob assured him. "Believe me, I do. You're not the only one who has a family, so I can sympathize. But that's not going to change anything, and the sooner you accept that, the easier it'll be."

Sam glowered. "No." And for good measure, he jerked his face away from Jacob's hand, causing his captor to sigh.

"All right, fine," he said in resignation. "Throw your little temper-tantrum if that makes you feel better. Just be sure to get it out of your system now, Sammy, because mark my words… If you act up like this in the presence of my father, well… Don't say I didn't warn you."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:** How will John, Dean and Bobby handle Sam's kidnapping? Please review!_


	6. Next Steps

_**Author's Note:**_ _I keep having to remind myself this takes place in 2004. The technology was a little different back then…_

 **SPN**

 **(Massachusetts … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

"All right, here's what we know," John said after ending his second phone call with Bobby. He focused his attention back on Dean, who couldn't stop pacing up and down the side of the guardrail lining the street. It was reaching noon, and every so often a car would hurtle past them, but if anyone found it unusual to spy two grown men loitering in the middle of nowhere, they didn't bother to investigate.

"Back in Lily Dale," John began, "you met a young woman who introduced herself as Elizabeth Lavenza. She read your palm and reached the conclusion that the three of us are something called legacies, which apparently makes us valuable to her family—they require our involvement in their long-term plans, whatever that means. Elizabeth thought the news of our existence would convince her family to let her pursue a relationship with good old Doc Benton."

"Doc Benton?" Dean asked, unable to put a face to the familiar name.

"Yeah," John said. "He's an alchemist I hunted awhile back. Immortal. I thought ripping his heart out would keep him down, but he still managed to find a girlfriend."

Dean pictured the young, stunning fortune-teller, with her gorgeous blonde hair, and imagined her making out with an ancient scar-faced monster. "You mean the guy who keeps having to replace body parts because they keep wearing out on him?" When John nodded, Dean shuddered. "He's practically a zombie! What kind of bitch finds that attractive?"

John ignored the question—they didn't have time for speculation. "Now, yesterday, a man approached Sammy while he was on campus with his girlfriend, Jessica."

If it weren't for the knots clenching Dean's stomach, he would have jumped at that revelation. Sam had a girlfriend!?

"He called himself Robert Walton and claimed to be a friend of mine," John continued. "I've never heard of him before, and according to Bobby, Sam and Jessica were so intimidated they called him for back-up. During that conversation, Bobby mentioned Elizabeth, and it occurred to Sam that both names—Elizabeth Lavenza and Robert Walton—belong to characters from Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_. As soon as he made the connection, his phone went dead, and shortly after that, he and Jessica both went missing. Bobby flew out to California, but there's no sign of them anywhere."

Damn… Dean struggled to control his voice. "We have to find them."

"Easier said than done," John replied. "We're on the wrong end of the country, with no clear idea who these people are, or where they're going. To make things worse, they separated Sam from Jessica, so if he tries escaping, she gets punished. He doesn't know where they're keeping her."

"Oh, great," Dean grumbled, shaking his head. Whoever these bastards were, they knew what they were doing—nothing distressed Sam more than civilians getting hurt. It was undoubtedly the worst thing about hunting—they couldn't save everyone. But to actually threaten a girl he knew and deeply cared about…? Dean could only imagine how trapped his brother must feel, and the thought pissed him off.

"Bobby's going to make Jessica his top priority," John assured him. "Because I can guarantee Sam won't cooperate in a rescue as long as she's at risk. As for us, we've been instructed to get rid of Doc Benton on behalf of Elizabeth's family. Turns out they share your disgust about her affair with the bastard, but they can't do anything about it because she earned their indulgence when she discovered us. So… they claim they'll 'let Sam go' if we take care of the problem."

Dean recognized his father's skepticism. "You think it's a trap?"

"Oh, there's no question it's a trap," John said slowly, thoughtfully. "But here's the thing… Most traps involve bad guys lying in wait… so if we're smart about this, it could be used to our advantage."

Dean nodded—first bit of good news all day. "Then it sounds like we've got work to do."

 **SPN**

 **(Stanford, California … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

"So you're a friend of Sam's?" Bobby asked, drifting into the apartment's living room with a watchful eye out for anything unusual. It was his second sweep through the place; he initially searched it after arriving in town last night, without much luck, and while he rarely overlooked details, he was desperate enough for clues to try again. And this time, he wasn't alone.

"Yeah, we were roommates for awhile," said a young man named Brady. Dressed in jeans and a red Stanford T-shirt, he looked like a typical undergrad, but with a slick haircut and fancy Rolex, he was probably cruising on someone else's dime. Hard to believe he and Sam had anything in common. "We met our freshman year. He, uh… He really helped me get through a rough patch, you know?"

"Oh, I can imagine," Bobby said softly, noticing the small picture frame decorating a desk in the corner. John and Mary. He paused, staring at it regretfully. How could anyone accuse Sam of walking out on his family when it was clear as day how much he hungered for them? So what if he also wanted an education? He was smart and he more than deserved a few years of normalcy. It wasn't fair of John to practically disown him over it.

Fingering the photograph, Bobby turned to look back at Brady, who was presently clearing books off the couch. "Is that why he gave you a key to his apartment?"

"What?" Brady glanced up at him in momentary confusion. Then, remembering the explanation he gave for his presence when Bobby arrived at Sam's door, he shrugged sheepishly—like that wasn't odd. "Yeah, I guess so. Sam wanted me to have somewhere safe to crash if I ever… if I ever felt myself craving… you know…" He trailed off, embarrassed.

Bobby stared at him. Figures. Rolling his eyes, he returned to his search—though nothing else drew his attention. "Listen…" he said after a minute. "In the past few days, you haven't seen anyone out of the ordinary… maybe watching Sam… or following him… have you?"

Brady hesitated, his broad forehead crinkled in concern. "You mean like a stalker? Look, man… I get it's out of character for Sam and Jess to take off for one last hurrah before school starts, but we're talking about Sam here. He doesn't have enemies. They're probably just… lying on a beach somewhere, savoring their last week off."

If only. Bobby shook his head. "He called me for help. Now he's missing."

Brady sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced down at the coffee table and pulled a laptop out from under a large history book. "Okay," he said nervously, opening the machine and typing in a password. "I might be able to track Sam's car with the GPS…"

"With the what?" Bobby asked, hackles rising. Why would Sam trust anyone with a key to his apartment and the password to his computer? Especially a rich snot with a drug problem? Kid wasn't that naive.

"GPS," Brady said again, typing on the computer. "Global Positioning System. Technically, I shouldn't have access to this, but what the hell? I'd have gone to MIT if my dad didn't insist that I follow in his footsteps."

"Ah." Bobby narrowed his eyes. So _that's_ what they had in common. Still… something wasn't adding up. "GPS… I didn't realize Sam could afford a car with that kind of technology."

"Oh, the car didn't come with it…" Brady smirked. "Basically, I was showing off to Becky Warren, and Sam let me borrow his ride. Tossed in a homemade tracking device and we spent an entire Saturday playing hide and seek."

"Right…" Bobby decided then and there he disliked Sam's old roommate. Oh, he didn't doubt the boy's potential tech savviness, and God only knew what nerds did for fun, but hell… Sam knew better than to drop his guard around civilians! This guy… Brady… His access into Sam's life was unsettling—possibly intrusive.

"Here you go," he said, turning the computer around to display a map of the woods not far from Lake Tahoe's western shore. "See? They must be camping."

"Uh-huh…" Bobby stared at the screen, memorizing it, and shot another glance at Brady. This was the best lead he had, and yet something about it didn't sit right. "You're sure that's where I can find Sam's car?"

Brady shrugged, noncommittally. "Yeah, but this has to be a misunderstanding, right…? You don't actually think Sam's in trouble…?" He was either the nice, harmless friend he appeared to be, or he played the part exceptionally well. Bobby couldn't say for sure, and he didn't appreciate the uncertainty. Still… he wasn't the immediate threat, and this was no time to get sidetracked. Bobby had to focus on Sam and Jessica first. He could worry about Brady later.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Will Jessica make it out alive? Please review! (I'll bake cookies!)_


	7. The Ordeal

_**Author's Note:**_ _So back in Chapter 4, I mentioned that there was a lot of magic at play leading up to the abduction… It's now worth pointing out that dark magic always comes with a price… The 'negative reactions' won't be too extreme, since the spells didn't come from the Book of the Damned, but they are still significant. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(California** **… Friday, September 24, 2004)**

Of all the places Jessica imagined being held captive by two raving lunatics, a gorgeous rustic mansion was definitely at the bottom of the list.

After fixing Sam's car, they had driven for hours with her packed tightly in the trunk, swaddled by a tarp, still gagged with her wrists bound tightly behind her back. It must have been after midnight by the time they pulled into a fancy three-door garage where they unloaded her with some difficulty. One of her captors—Earl?—was in extraordinary pain, forcing the other—Freddie?—to do all the heavy lifting.

"I'm sorry, man…" he said, clutching his right elbow in dismay. "This ain't gonna heal…"

"Don't worry, Earl," his friend said, hauling Jess over his shoulder and smacking her butt playfully—she couldn't help but squeal through her gag. "You know how our magic works, and one measly arm is a small price to pay for that concealment spell. We'll get you a new one in no time." He proceeded towards a grand mahogany door that led from the garage into a breathtaking hallway with wrought iron chandeliers dangling from a coffered walnut ceiling.

"Tonight…" Earl pleaded as they continued up a broad staircase that passed by an arched window—still too dark out to see anything. "Please Freddie, I need a replacement now, and I can't wait till morning. You have no idea how much this hurts!"

"Oh, I can imagine," Freddie assured him as they reached the second-story landing. Under different circumstances, Jess would have been in awe by the luxury surrounding her, but now her attention was riveted to the bizarre conversation. Magic? Concealment spells? Arm replacements? Who were these crazy bastards and what did they want with Sam?

The deeper they trudged into the house, the more she whimpered softly. How the hell was she supposed to get out of here? And what would happen if she didn't? Sam…

Eventually, they found themselves entering someone's dream bathroom, complete with a stone-tiled floor, granite countertops, a basin sink, a giant mirror with an elegant frame, and an oversized drop-in bathtub. No windows, though. Freddie crossed over to the tub and gingerly lowered Jess in. She shied away from him, tempted to kick, but scared of the repercussions.

"I can see why Sam likes you," he said, reaching out to stroke her hair. Tears brimmed in her eyes, which only seemed to encourage him. He leaned down and licked her face.

"Freddie, please!" Earl insisted with an agonized voice. "My arm! I'll give you anything to harvest a new one for me!"

Much to Jess' relief, Freddie drew back with a sigh. "All right, fine. Business before pleasure." He swept over to a cherry cabinet and pulled out another length of rope. Returning to the tub, he quickly tied her legs together and laughed at her feeble resistance. "Sit tight, sweetheart, and get some rest if you can. You've had a long night." He kissed her forehead and followed Earl to the door. They promptly turned the lights off and locked her inside, stranding her alone in the dark.

At first, Jess was too scared to move. She sat trembling in her nightmare of a prison, exhausted and unsure of herself. Gradually, she considered the possibility that no one would be able to find her—not if these thugs had access to a house this size—and simple self-preservation compelled her to twist and pull on her restraints. She struggled frantically, wincing as the rope scraped her skin.

At one point, she rolled onto her stomach, curled up into a child's pose, and stretched her arms back, trying to get them beneath her feet—it was an uncomfortable and pointless exercise; her arms didn't fit around her hips. Grunting in frustration, she rolled back around and kicked the side of the tub.

 _Come on, Jessica,_ she thought to herself. _What do you need?_

Light would be helpful… And something to cut the ropes… Well, she knew where the light switch was… if she could only get to it without breaking her neck…

As carefully as she could, Jess sat up and spun to her knees. Then, after a few false starts, she managed to stand. Shuffling to the edge of the bathtub, she sat on the rim, raised her legs and pivoted. There! She found herself standing on the tiled floor. Pleased with her progress, she shuffled slowly towards the door.

Upon reaching the wall, she used her shoulder to search for the switch—a task that proved quite difficult. She could practically hear the minutes ticking by as she floundered around blindly. What time was it, anyway? How did she get in this mess? Where was Sam?

When she finally rammed into the elusive switch, the room's sudden illumination came as a shock—she didn't realize how much her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the transition staggered her. She nearly stumbled, clenching her eyes shut and waiting for them to recover. Then, blinking slowly, she cast her gaze around the fancy room for something useful.

It really was a luxurious space—almost like a spa. Flowers… unlit candles… a beige vanity stool… and that overwhelming mirror. Jess stared at her reflection miserably. God, she'd seen better days—and it was only going to get worse before it got better. If she wanted to survive this ordeal, she would have to risk seriously hurting herself. But what alternative was there?

Biting her gag resolutely, Jess shuffled over to the vanity stool. She sat down, brought her legs up under her, and pushed back up to her feet. Balancing precariously, she edged over the sink and sat on the granite countertop. By now, she was sweating, shaking, and out of breath. She hesitated, questioning the wisdom of her next action. It could be loud… but this was a large house, and since her captors left her in the tub, she hadn't heard a sound from outside that door. Besides, weren't they preoccupied with Earl's arm?

 _Well, here goes nothing_ , Jess thought, leaning onto her back. Thank God she still had on her sneakers—for some reason, they had taken Sam's off. Raising her legs, she mustered all her strength and kicked the glass. Despite the awkward angle, a crack appeared. Good. Bracing herself, Jess kicked a second time, then a third. Finally, the mirror shattered.

Shards rained down on her like knives, nicking her face and arms. She grimaced, but fought through the pain, scrambling to get her hands on a makeshift blade. There! Without missing a beat, she proceeded to saw the rope binding her wrists. It took forever, and she almost lost patience, moaning dejectedly. But she couldn't give up now—not after all this effort—and at last her persistence paid off. The rope snapped and her hands were free.

Finally! Savoring the relief in her shoulders, she hastily ripped the gag from her mouth and untied her legs. Blood oozed from her wrists, so she hopped off the counter and searched the cabinet for spare towels. As she cleaned the abrasions, she wondered what to do next. The door was still locked, and she had no idea what to expect if she made it outside. So far no one had come to investigate the broken mirror… She didn't think they were guarding her… They probably didn't expect her to fight like this…

Still… how long would her luck hold out? She needed to escape. Fast.

Wiping her hands, Jess ventured over to the door and tested the lock. It felt sturdy enough, but not impenetrable. Hell, why stop with mirrors? Taking a deep breath, she plowed her foot against the door near the handle—just like on TV. Unfortunately, the door was built to swing inward, not outward, so even after multiple attempts, it didn't budge. Why didn't they ever show that on TV?

"HEY!? WHAT'S GOING ON UP THERE!?"

Jess stumbled backwards, heart racing as Earl came bounding up the stairs. Damn it! What now? She spun in a tight circle, desperately seeking a weapon. There! The toilet stall! She sprang forward and heaved the ceramic lid from the top of the tank—it was heavy enough to serve as a proper blunt object.

Earl was outside the door, fiddling with the lock. "YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY, YOU LITTLE WHORE?" He was slurring his words, struggling to get the door open. Given the state of his arm, Jess wondered if he'd been drinking to numb the pain.

In any case, she had ample time to scale the granite countertop, where she waited with the ceramic lid firmly in her grasp. This might kill a man… But it was self-defense!

Moments later, the door opened and Earl stumbled in, his face flushed and his eyes glazed over. He glanced around the bathroom stupidly—definitely drunk.

Jess shrieked, smashing the lid down on top of his head—he didn't even try to dodge. The lid fractured, and he crumbled to the floor unconscious. It was the most sickening thing she'd ever done. Covering her mouth, Jess held back tears and scurried out into the hallway. Nothing left to do but run. She sprinted through the mansion, retracing their steps, and quickly found the stairs, which she descended two at a time.

Thankfully, Freddie was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone looking for Earl's replacement arm, whatever that meant… She shuddered at the thought.

Finding what looked like the main entrance, Jess crashed into the door and sprang the locks. It triggered an alarm, but she didn't care. So what if the police came? She pulled the door open and ran outside, finding herself on a giant porch that led down to a circular driveway with an impressive fountain. Security lights switched on, revealing an immaculate lawn with a sealed gate on the opposite side of the house. She bit her lip, hesitating at the sight, but nevertheless made a break for it.

Thankfully, on closer inspection, she realized the gate was more decorative than functional—it had all the scroll work necessary for her to climb up and over. Free at last, she disappeared into the night.

 **SPN**

 **(California** **… Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

The next few hours all passed in a blur. Jessica followed the road at a brisk pace, hiding in the trees whenever she saw headlights for fear of Freddie. Gradually, the sky brightened and she came to the outskirts of a small but lively town. Oh, thank God…

"Somebody help me!" she shouted, jogging into the street near a gas station and coffee shop. Several early risers turned to stare at her, caught off guard by her disheveled appearance—but the cuts on her face and arms, the blood on her wrists, eventually earned their sympathy, and they called for an ambulance.

She was swiftly carted off to a hospital where some cops arrived to take her statement while a team of nurses began her treatment—obviously, they could tell by her condition that she had been to hell and back. They needed as much information as possible to find the culprits—but Jess was exhausted and distraught, unable to focus. Her words came out shakily and jumbled.

"They kidnapped us… Sam… My boyfriend, Sam Winchester… I don't know where he is… They had me in a mansion a few miles from here… You have to find Sam! Please!"

"What can you tell us about—?"

"They're crazy! Literally, insane! Their names… Robert Walton, Earl and Freddie… There were two others… But I don't think those are their real names! Please, they have my boyfriend!" She tried to describe the bastards, but was simply too tired. The next thing she knew, she was on a bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

When she finally came to, it was late afternoon, early evening, and she was in a private room wearing a blue hospital gown. All bandaged up. Thirsty. Terribly thirsty. She tried to sit, wincing from the pain and nausea. As the memories returned, tears once again filled her eyes. It occurred to her how lucky she was—not everyone survived a kidnapping. Sam… He was their real target, and God only knew… It was too horrible to think about…

"Jessica? Jessica Moore?"

Startled, she nearly jumped from the bed, turning to face a bearded man in rugged clothes with a trucker's hat. Burly… gentle… furious… kind… Something about his presence alone put her back at ease. She was safe now.

And sure enough, as he approached her bed, he spoke with fatherly concern. "Jessica, my name's Bobby Singer. I'm a friend of Sam's. I'm here to help."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _A friend told me that I may have been too easy on Jess… but really, this story's more about Sam's capture than hers, and I wanted her out of danger primarily to keep the focus on him, if that makes sense. Hope no one minds!_

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _They need him alive… but that doesn't mean they won't make him suffer… Please review!_


	8. Turmoil

**SPN**

 **(Massachusetts … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

"You found her…" From his perch on a public bench in a quaint city plaza, John breathed a sigh of relief. He could tell by Bobby's greeting—by the tone in his voice—that they were finally in luck.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say I found her," Bobby corrected him, and John could picture the man shrugging. "Truth is, she got away."

What? He glanced at his phone in perplexity, wondering if his ears deceived him. What kind of girl was Sammy dating, that she could escape from such a predicament with supernatural bad guys? Because there was no doubt in John's mind they were supernatural. "How'd she pull that off?"

"Well," Bobby began slowly, thoughtfully. "She's got a good head on her shoulders, and those sons of bitches were damn fools, underestimating her… Best I can tell, Robert Walton and his lackeys used a concealment spell on Interstate 280 last night to prevent people from noticing their little ambush… To Sam and Jessica, it was like being on an abandoned road in the middle of nowhere. Now, these types of spells come with a price, and it was paid by one of the lackeys—guy named Earl. It damaged his arm beyond repair. So after they all split up, Earl and his pal Freddie took the girl to some kind of mansion west of Lake Tahoe where they locked her in a bathroom. Earl was in so much pain that he begged Freddie to find him a replacement—so Freddie goes off to hunt for a spare arm or something, and Earl proceeds to get hammered. By the time Jessica managed to free herself, she was practically unsupervised. Unfortunately, I don't think their friends will be that careless with Sam."

"No," John agreed somberly. "Especially not after this." As much as the girl's escape pleased him, he feared how Robert Walton would react… and the thought of Sam's safety weighed heavily on his mind. Just because they needed him alive didn't mean they wouldn't make him suffer… Damn… "Bobby, they've been using that girl to keep Sammy in line. You can't let her out of your sight, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

Across the plaza near a prominent water feature, John observed a stylish young brunette in a leather jacket. On the surface, she seemed more refined than a typical twenty-first century heiress—and he knew her British accent lent credence to her image—but he wasn't fooled. She was a selfish, lawless snob, and he had no respect for her whatsoever. But… desperate times…

"Bobby, I'll have to call you back." Hanging up, John gave the woman a conciliatory nod, to which she smiled smugly. And as she approached, he braced himself for a compromising conversation. The things he'd do for his boys…

"John Winchester," she said, taking a seat next to him, smelling of cinnamon. "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd get off your high horse. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Eyes flashing, he shot her a glare that no one could mistake—quiet fury. "Let me explain something to you, Bela. When I get off my high horse, it's to raise hell. And mark my words, I'll snap your neck out of spite if you cross me." That caught her attention. Face blanching, she attempted to bolt, but he grabbed her arm. "Stay. I called you in good faith. Just don't try anything."

She hesitated, studying his expression warily. But then curiosity got the best of her. "What can I do for you, John?"

He held back a sigh, not wanting to emphasize his reluctance to deal with her, and produced an antique silver key from his pocket. She stared at it with wide green eyes.

"Is that—?"

"The key to Gretel's vault." He nodded, tightening his fist around the precious artifact. "I don't suppose you ever managed to crack the lock?" On a good day, she had an impressive poker face, but his earlier threat did the trick, and she was off her game. He smirked. "It's all yours… but I need some information, and I have a feeling you move in the same circles."

"Oh?"

"What can you tell me about a particularly corrupt family with considerable resources, magical abilities and southern accents? They seem to identify with characters from Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_."

Her gaze swept from his closed fist to his dark face, and after a moment, she bit her lip. "I can tell you they're dangerous. If you're planning to hunt them, you might want to reconsider."

Definitely supernatural, then. He shook his head. "Bela, they have my son." Maybe she'd prove him wrong and sympathize. "I don't know what they want, but if I don't do something…" He trailed off, not wanting to think about the repercussions. Sammy… "Are they your clients?"

"Oh, God, no." She nearly laughed at the suggestion, but was tactful enough to check herself. "They're competitors." She took a deep breath, no doubt questioning the wisdom of her words. "I hate to say it, but their retrieval specialists put me to shame. They're not going to pay for a service they don't require."

Much to John's surprise, he believed her. "So who are they?"

"Simply put? They're the inspiration for Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_." She nodded sagely at his raised brow. "They're an ancient European family that feeds on chaos. They profit from disease and disaster—they actually incite destabilization to promote their business. They're bad news. After _Frankenstein's_ publication, they were forced to abbreviate, so these days, they go by the name Styne. Monroe Styne is the family patriarch—of the American branch, that is. You should be able to find him around Shreveport, Louisiana."

Her gaze dropped back to John's closed fist as he processed her report. The inspiration for _Frankenstein_? Was nothing fictional anymore? Damn… No wonder Elizabeth Lavenza could stomach Doc Benton—they weren't all that different—two monstrosities assembled out of stolen body parts… Bastards. And now they had Sam.

"Bela," he said at last, delivering the key as promised. "Whoever you sell this to… Please… Please be responsible with it." Judging from her expression, he figured there might be a thirty percent chance of her listening—which was better than he hoped for. Getting to his feet, he began the long march back to his truck.

"John!" She rose as well, calling after him with genuine concern in her voice. When he glanced over his shoulder, she offered a weak shrug. "I know we're not friends… but for what it's worth, I hope you find your son. I… I wouldn't wish the attention of Monroe Styne on anyone—not even my worst enemy."

 **SPN**

 **(Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

Sam woke from a fitful sleep as Mason began loosening the ropes around his legs. He had no idea what time it was, but the van's interior lights were on, and he sensed it was late—at least twenty-four hours since the start of his captivity. Groaning, he glanced around for Rhett and Jacob. Both were watching with steady vigilance, confident and prepared for anything.

"There already?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant as Mason grabbed his arm and yanked his upper body forward to better access his wrist restraints. For whatever reason, they were untying him.

"Oh, we still have a ways to go," Jacob said playfully. "But we found a nice, quiet country gas station and figured you might want to freshen up." Sam narrowed his eyes, wondering what the game was—no way in hell they cared about his comfort—and Jacob chuckled at his obvious distrust. "Don't look so surprised. We both know you won't risk your girlfriend's safety by trying to escape. And even if you did, you wouldn't get very far."

"Maybe," Sam grumbled, hating his helplessness, but the bastard was right. As long as they had Jessica, he couldn't fight them—wouldn't fight them. The rope slid to the ground and he gingerly brought his arms forward, grateful for the reprieve, no matter how suspicious. His wrists were in bad shape and it was a struggle to keep from grimacing—don't show fear!

Mason helped him up and he followed submissively as Jacob opened the rear door. Outside, a single floodlight overlooked a lonely parking lot with just one fuel dispenser. Other than the adjacent convenience store, there was no other sign of civilization. They must have been deep in the country.

The gravel hurt Sam's feet and the brisk night air made him shiver, but he didn't even think to complain. They were setting him up for something, and as they approached the building's main entrance, he tried steeling himself for whatever it might be.

"After you," Jacob said, pulling the door open and gliding his hand across Sam's back, encouraging him forward. It was offensively intimate, and Sam clenched his fists to keep from retaliating. Inside, the bright fluorescent lights made him blink, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then, he found himself observing three aisles of food racks with a frozen section on the opposite wall. To their left, a slim middle-aged woman in a purple plaid shirt sat by the register with a novel in her hands.

"Evening," she said, not bothering to look up. Just as well… Sam wasn't wearing any shoes and he probably made a sorry sight next to a good ol' boy like Jacob Styne.

"Ma'am," his captor said courteously while Rhett and Mason crossed over to the drinks. Sam was hustled straight to the facilities where he was thankfully allowed some privacy—only room for one. No windows. Just a sink and a single unit. No weapons. No way out. And it smelled like crap. He wrinkled his nose.

After relieving himself, Sam lingered by the sink, staring glumly at his reflection. He didn't look anything at all like the tough, defiant hunter he was trying so hard to portray. Damn it. Why couldn't he be more like Dean?

A frightened cry from the front of the store caught his attention—his heart leapt to his throat. What the hell? Dashing out of the restroom, he stopped short at the sight of Jacob holding a pistol. Rhett and Mason were both in strategic positions around him, and the cashier stood cowering in the corner. One thing seemed horribly clear—this was not a robbery.

"NO!" Acting purely on instinct, Sam crossed the room in what felt like a single bound and sidled between Jacob and his target. "Don't you dare, you son of a bitch!"

"Sammy," Jacob admonished in that same disgustingly playful voice. "You're a smart boy. Surely you know we can't have witnesses." The woman choked back a sob while Rhett and Mason smirked at each other. This was all a joke to them—a cruel joke meant to make Sam squirm. He shook his head, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Why are you doing this? You already have me where you want me, so what's the point?"

Jacob smiled, looking Sam up and down, savoring his distress. "It's simple, really. I mean, after all, we want to know everything there is to know about you. And can you think of a better way to figure someone out than to present him with a dilemma? So I'm going to ask you nicely, please get out of the way and let me do my job. Otherwise, your girlfriend will suffer the consequences."

By now, the woman was sobbing uncontrollably. Sam couldn't move—couldn't believe what he was hearing. Growing up, he and Dean had been trained like warriors to stare evil in the face, but nothing could have prepared him for this moment. Jessica…

"No…" It was little more than a broken whisper. "God help me… No…" Jess… Dad… Sam suddenly pictured his father. Not the overbearing, tyrannical drill sergeant… But the strong, courageous hero who did everything in his power to protect his children… And for the first time in well over two years, Sam felt his pain and bitterness chased away by an unspeakable longing for his family.

"Come on, Sammy," Jacob taunted. "You're not really going to sacrifice your pretty little blonde for a washed out old bitch like her, are you? You don't even know her name."

Sam set his jaw, reaching a decision that might haunt him for the rest of his life, but what else could he do? Play into their hands? When he spoke, he made every effort to channel his father's resolve. "No. You're not going to hurt Jessica. She's the only leverage you have, and you're not stupid enough to waste her on something like this. Especially since you'll need her to keep me in check when my dad and my brother come to get me. So I'm calling your bluff, and I'm not going to let you kill this woman."

If anything, Jacob looked more amused. "Like I said…" He tapped the barrel of the gun against his temple. "Smart boy."

"And noble," Rhett observed, as if inspecting chattel. "With a proper upbringing, he would have made an impressive Man of Letters. It's almost a shame." Mason was snickering in delight, and Sam couldn't help but cock his head. Man of Letters? What the hell was he talking about?

Jacob holstered the gun and signaled for his henchmen to step back, guard the door and prevent anyone from leaving. His gaze didn't drift from Sam. "You're not going to win this fight, so why bother getting hurt? Stand down."

"No way." Sam returned his gaze evenly, despite the truth of his words. Even one-on-one, Jacob would undoubtedly outmatch him—he wasn't stiff, sore and tired like Sam was. And that wasn't his only advantage. Still… Better to go down swinging. He stood his ground warily and waited for Jacob to make the first move.

"Stubborn, too." Jacob clucked his tongue. "But I think we already knew that. Very well, Sammy. Let's dance." Cocky and sadistic, he advanced blithely and lashed out with the back of his hand. Sam blocked and tried to counter with his knee, but Jacob's other hand struck it down. They grappled each other, like bulls, and though Sam was taller, Jacob was meatier. He propelled Sam away from the cashier and slammed him roughly against the nearest food rack before driving him to the floor.

Sam struggled to rebound, but Jacob clubbed his head and everything went dark.

 **SPN**

When Sam came to, he was back in the dimly lit van, lying on his stomach. His legs were bent painfully behind him—his ankles hogtied to his wrists. It felt like his shoulders and hamstrings were on fire and he could barely move. To make things worse, he could taste the wadded cloth they stuffed in his mouth, which they secured with a tight bandana. Groaning, he tugged on his restraints, but it was useless. He wasn't going anywhere.

"In case you were wondering," Rhett whispered, slinking to his side. Sam turned his head, but could barely see him from such a poor angle. "We made it quick. She didn't suffer."

The cashier… They killed her. And for what? To torment Sam? Well… it worked. Anger and frustration coursed through his veins and he howled forlornly against his gag.

Rhett laughed, taking a moment to pet Sam's hair affectionately.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _John and Dean head straight into a trap_ … _Please review!_


	9. The Bed and Breakfast

_**Author's Note:**_ _It's possible I'm taking creative liberties in this chapter, but that's all part of the fun, right? I hope everyone's enjoying the story! We still have a LONG way to go. Please keep reading!_

 **SPN**

 **(Beacon Valley, New Hampshire … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

Nestled in the woods along the Connecticut River, somewhere between Hanover and Lyme, the quiet town of Beacon Valley, New Hampshire had little to do with the outside world. It was an old-fashioned, declining settlement with an aging population, and while some of the buildings were notably historic—the town hall, the bank, the white-steeple church—it wasn't enough to entice many tourists. Nevertheless, when John first learned of Doc Benton fourteen years ago, he lodged at Finch's Bed and Breakfast, which made it the likeliest location for a trap. Clearly.

"It's what I would do," John speculated earlier that evening as they navigated the rough, winding road into town—considering its desperate need for repair, Dean didn't regret their decision to leave behind the Impala. "They'll expect me to retrace my steps. In fact, they're probably counting on it. They can't ambush us if we don't surface in the right place."

They parked the truck outside a lumber mill where it stood a good chance of blending in and used the cover of darkness to venture across town. Finch's Bed and Breakfast stood on a grassy knoll to the north, proudly presiding over Beacon Valley. From what John could remember, the house was at least 8,000 square feet with a shingle exterior, a wide porch, Palladian windows, two chimneys and a gabled roof. Hardly cost-effective; whoever owned the joint must be wealthy.

Presently, it was difficult to distinguish with only two wall lanterns flanking the main entrance. Dean wondered if they were always lit this late at night. Ducking behind a short brick property fence, he and his father carefully surveyed the area. "How do we know they're inside?" he whispered. "They could've come and gone already. Or they might still be looking for bits and pieces of the doc out in the mountains."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," John replied skeptically. Better safe than sorry. "First thing's first. We need to get to the garage." It was a detached structure—once a barn—behind the main house. Taking point, Dean kept low to the ground and crept along the outside edge of the fence. What John hoped to find in the garage, he had no idea, but if they were going to outsmart the Stynes, they needed to be resourceful. Unpredictable. And, as always, Dean had to do everything his father said without hesitation.

It took several minutes for them to skirt around the perimeter to the back. With the trees overhead, blocking the moon, it was eerily dark, perfect for some kind of supernatural showdown. Like Halloween four years ago… Damn witches. But this was a completely different scenario, and despite his misgivings, Dean had to concentrate. The sooner they accomplished their mission here, the sooner they could rescue Sam.

"Dean," John motioned for him to stop. They were as close to the garage as they could get before trespassing on the Finches' property, and since it stood between them and the house, hopefully no one would see them coming. As long as they didn't encounter any guards patrolling the grounds, they could proceed undetected, but just in case, they took turns jumping the fence and moved with caution. Like thieves in the night.

They soon reached an unlocked door on the western wall and took the opportunity to dart inside. Dean paused, listening, but aside from his father, didn't hear a sound. They were in the clear. A part of him wondered if the Stynes were really waiting for them… What were the odds? If Sam were here, he'd demand to know how John could be so confident; he'd want the facts—hard evidence. After all, if they were going to be decent hunters, they needed to learn how John strategized, how he figured things out, how he made decisions… As if Sam cared about the tricks of the trade… He never wanted to hunt… Just stir up trouble…

At least, that's what Dean always thought. Why couldn't Sam just trust their father? They had a system in place that always worked—John would lead, they would follow, and the monsters would die. Who cared about the details? John knew what he was doing, and as long as they obeyed their instructions, he never steered them wrong. Why was that so difficult to understand?

But now… as John retrieved a flashlight from a shelf somewhere, casting the beam around the spacious garage… Dean came to a disconcerting realization. With his brother's life on the line, they couldn't afford a single misstep. If by any chance—even the slightest chance—their father was wrong, Sammy could suffer drastic consequences. That's why it was so tempting to question John—not to challenge his authority, but to hold him accountable—because the stakes were simply too high.

These fears and misgivings… This sense of urgency… Dean only felt this way when his loved ones were in serious danger. They risked their lives all the time, but that wasn't the same thing—they were trained for the various occupational hazards. No big deal. But when John and Sammy were actually in honest-to-God danger… Dean could barely think straight even as it became essential to calculate every move—to prepare for every contingency.

Hell, was this how Sammy felt on every hunt?

"Over here." John made his way around a snowmobile and began sorting through a cluster of yard equipment, clearing off a section of the reclaimed wooden floor. Dean inched closer, watching in perplexity. What in the—? Finding a crack between two planks, John suddenly lifted a secret hatch that led into a deep, gaping hole. As dust billowed everywhere, Dean did a double take.

"What—?"

John aimed the flashlight into the hole—it looked like a six-foot drop at least. "There's a tunnel running from here to the basement of the main house. Used to be part of the Underground Railroad. You don't see many of these; they're almost unheard of. It's enough to put Beacon Valley on the map, but the Finches would rather not have a mob of archaeologists excavating their property, so they've kept it quiet. I only found out about it after a lengthy dinner conversation on the local lore. Had to swear I'd keep my mouth shut."

"And you don't think the Stynes know about it?"

"Why should they? It was an incidental discovery on my part. Had nothing to do with Doc Benton. Kind of poetic, though, using a historical treasure like this to once again frustrate some southern jackasses over a century later."

Dean tightened his lips, thoughts flying back to Sam. _He's_ the one who'd find this poetic. _He's_ the one who'd appreciate the irony, or whatever you'd call it. But he wasn't here, and his absence felt like a friggin' knife in the heart. "So we go in through the basement while they're waiting for us at the door, and then what?"

John sighed. "For starters, recon." He met Dean's gaze and they both sensed each other's restlessness. Sam needed them—they didn't have time for recon! "Let's figure out how many we're dealing with and how they treat Benton. If they truly resent his affair with Elizabeth, we might be able to turn them against each other."

Dean scowled. Oh, there was no question the immortal freak would make a fine weapon against the Stynes, but then again, the only good freak was a dead freak. He didn't like the idea of aligning with one—especially one who more than likely held a grudge against his dad. After all, Doc Benton would not have forgotten the hunter who tore him to pieces. This wasn't going to end well.

John must have shared his apprehension because, as Dean made to enter the tunnel, he caught his son by the elbow. "Listen. If I give the word, you drop everything and run. Understand?" Dean closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. He could hear the gravity in his father's voice and knew better than to argue, but honestly, he was too old to be coddled like this. Of course, John easily read his mind. "I mean it, Dean. The Stynes want all three of us, and there's no way that's going to happen. You get out, find Bobby, and follow his lead. That's an order."

Dean bristled at the command, but nodded all the same. "Yes sir."

 **SPN**

"I'll be happy when this whole thing's over," Eldon Styne grumbled as he worked meticulously to reconstruct his cousin's sorry excuse for a boyfriend. The guy was a mess—an ancient, wrinkled, grisly mess with more scars on his pasty face than that doll from those horror movies. Chucky? What could Lilibet possibly see in him?

To make matters worse, he had to operate on the dining room table of a cozy little bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere rather than a modern research center with a pristine medical lab—which would have been ideal and easy to access, given his father's resources. Eldon liked to think he was a good sport in most cases, and he appreciated a challenge, but this… this was beneath him. Not only had he spent hours—hours!—retrieving Doc Benton's mangled body, piece by piece, in the White Mountain National Forest with a location spell that literally cost Colton his eyes—thankfully they had spares—but now he had to put up with Mrs. Finch—who wouldn't stop crying!—while they waited to snag some legacies who may or may not walk into their little trap. Whose idea was this? Oh yeah... Dad's...

There was no guarantee John and Dean Winchester would show up. Eli had killed Mr. Finch and some random guest to minimize disruptions, but they might have to stick around for a few days, waiting as patiently as possible, so they needed the woman to divert any unsuspecting townsmen who might come to check up on the elderly couple. And she was such a nuisance. If they had to spend a second longer than necessary in this wretched wilderness, he was going to have strong words with Elizabeth. She's the one who started this mess. And honestly, who would choose to live in the north?

With Roy and Colton on patrol in the hallways, Eli leaning against the China cabinet—bored out of his mind—and Mrs. Finch quivering in her seat at the head of the table, Eldon had no one to assist him with the filthy carcass—for Doc Benton certainly looked dead. "Hard to believe he's immortal. Amateur. What was he thinking, turning himself into this?"

Eli sneered. "Apparently, back in the day, Uncle Monroe robbed him of his one true love. Lilibet. He tried everything to find her, but of course he failed, so he pursued this avenue, hoping that one day the tables would turn. That he'd find a way to kill us and live happily ever after with his bride-to-be. What a stupid, sloppy piece of shit."

Eldon knew the story. He remembered Elizabeth begging his father to rescue her beloved Thomas fourteen years ago, after she witnessed his mutilation through her damn crystal balls. Of course, Monroe had been implacable, which was only natural. After all, what made Doc Benton think he deserved Elizabeth? He was nothing but a vulgar, uncivilized vagrant while she was an illustrious daughter in the most powerful family to ever grace these western shores. With all their wealth and influence, the Stynes were better than royalty, and Elizabeth should never have encouraged his impudence.

"Maybe she'll take one look at his repulsive face and come to her senses."

Eli shook his head. "I doubt it. She's far too stubborn for that."

"No kidding."

Eldon was in the process of wiping blood from Benton's chest onto the table when the carcass suddenly—but briefly—convulsed. Mrs. Finch screamed loudly enough to make Eldon wince before she swooned, which apparently amused the good doctor. He unleashed a guttural laugh and slowly opened his cloudy eyes. "Now, why," he said in a hoarse, lethargic voice, "would two smart-mouthed whelps like you put such an offensive wretch like me back together again?"

Eldon and Eli glanced at each other. About time. They weren't the least bit fazed by their lab rat's condescension—he was nothing compared to Monroe. Unfortunately, they'd have to answer to Monroe if they couldn't secure his cooperation, so they better start playing nice. "Dr. Benton. My name is Eldon Styne—I'm Elizabeth's cousin. This is Eli, her brother."

"I don't care who you are…" Moving slowly and stiffly, Benton sat up and stretched his neck, rolling it to the left and right. "Excuse me if I seem a bit grumpy, but you have no idea how long it took to fall asleep after that _hunter's_ onslaught. Can't say I appreciate the rude awakening." He glanced around the room with a macabre smile, head listing to the side. "So what is it you want?"

Eli crossed his arms, irritated. "Perhaps some gratitude? Elizabeth sent us. We're here on her behalf."

"Sure you are…" Benton seemed unconvinced. Despite everything, he wasn't a complete moron, and if he decided to resist, Eldon would have to add 'headache' to his list of complaints. "And why should I believe a word you say?"

Hoping to salvage the situation, Eldon tried again, doing his best to sound diplomatic. "Dr. Benton… You have to understand, we only ever wanted the best for Elizabeth. But now she's in danger. Our whole family's in danger." He paused to observe the effect of his words and bit back a smile at Benton's scowl. "We're being hunted by the same assassin that brought you down, and we figured you could help us. Who knows? You might even win our favor."

"Favor," Benton said pensively, letting the word roll off his tongue. "You see, that's the problem with you southern gents… You think you're so much better than the rest of us…" He shook his head, edging to the far side of the table where he used the back of a tall chair for support to drag himself to his feet—he was recovering quickly. Eli pushed off the China cabinet, suddenly on guard, as Benton rubbed his hands together. "I don't want or need anyone's favor but Elizabeth's… As for the rest of you… I wish that hunter luck."

"Oh, come on, doc," Eldon protested, fiddling with his silver forceps—not an effective weapon, but still a fine tool. "Don't make me regret fixing you up. Believe me, I went through a lot of trouble here." Colton appeared in the kitchen doorway while Roy emerged from the parlor—they had Benton boxed in, but if he felt intimidated, he gave no sign. Rather, he stood his ground like a frail demigod, confident of his prowess despite his obvious shortcomings.

"I suppose I should be grateful," he said with a shrug. "But after all these years… If you think it hurt having my heart cut out with a chainsaw, then you've never felt the… the agony… of losing your soulmate… I'm not about to help you, Mr. Eldon Styne. I would sooner die."

Eldon fumed. Damn Yankees. He was about to reply when Benton reached under the table, hoisting it up and ramming it forward. Eli managed to sidestep out of harm's way, but Eldon was sandwiched between the hard surface and the wall. He grunted, startled by the force of the attack. Roy and Colton immediately rushed to restrain Benton, but he was clearly stronger than he looked and held them at bay with a chair.

Gritting his teeth, Eldon pushed the table back, sidling out from behind it, and considered how best to incapacitate the bastard. He was immortal, after all, so there was room for creativity. On the other hand, it would really suck having to damage something he just spent so much time and energy repairing. How was this even remotely fair?

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a tall, dark and boorish figure entering the room. John Winchester? Where the hell did he come from? How the hell did he get past the snares? Damn. If Jacob found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it, and you could bet Eli'd be quick to run his mouth. Eli…?

Eldon faltered as the hunter aimed a pistol point-blank at his cousin and squeezed the trigger. The blast filled the room; blood splattered everywhere; Eli crumbled to the floor without so much as a gasp. "NO!" Heart hammering, Eldon dove behind the table as John turned the weapon on him. It went off five more times, dispatching Roy and Colton with lethal precision. Doc Benton began to laugh.

Cursing, Eldon scrambled away from his assailant, the need to survive outweighing the shame of retreat. He hastened through the parlor door only to find himself face-to-face with the boy. Dean. And he did not look happy—his expression hard, his eyes cold.

The next thing Eldon knew, a stun gun struck his chest, administering an extraordinary electric shock through his body. The amperage must have been hiked specifically for a Styne. It not only paralyzed him, it completely knocked him out.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _John and Dean confront the immortal alchemist. Please review! (Let me know what you think about Doc Benton!)_


	10. A Love Story

_**Author's Note:**_ _I was not expecting to write this chapter, but sometimes a story will take a life of its own, and I couldn't stop myself... I actually think it came together nicely, and would love to hear your thoughts!_

 **SPN**

 **(Beacon Valley, New Hampshire … Saturday, September 25, 2004)**

Dean blinked, somewhat surprised by the stun gun's effectiveness. Of course, the idea had been his father's, so why shouldn't it work? Shrugging, he followed the sound of maniacal laughter into a disheveled dining room where John squared off against the immortal alchemist. Doc Benton was towering over three dead bodies amidst several broken chairs and an overturned table, dressed only in a pair of trousers—not a pretty sight. To his left, a dazed woman in her seventies—Mrs. Finch—remained slumped over in her seat, whimpering pathetically. She would need help, which meant they had to hurry.

Together, John and Dean brandished their machetes—not to kill their quarry, not unless he made them—but to yank his chain. And sure enough, they must have had more credibility than the Stynes, for Benton immediately backpedaled, holding his hands up in surrender. "Now wait just a minute! You don't want to do that! We can help each other!"

John scoffed. "That'll be the day."

"You're good. I'll give you that. But if you think you can take on the entire Styne family, you're delusional."

"Oh, I don't know," Dean said, gesturing blithely at the carnage surrounding them. "They weren't all that scary." And despite everything, Benton smirked appreciatively. It wasn't an act—he truly despised the villains—more than he despised his hunters—and they would exploit his hostility if they could… however dangerous that might be.

"Whelps, the lot of them…" Benton shook his head, meeting John's gaze. "I remember you. Berserker. It'll take more than a standard hunting arsenal to challenge their betters, believe me, and they won't brook an outrage like this. If you want to survive their retaliation, you'd do well to listen."

"Right," Dean said when John didn't reply. "Like you care."

Benton sighed, his head listing languidly. His posture wasn't all that bad for a gaunt old man, and in his youth he must have been extremely vigorous—he carried himself with a poise that belied the brutal scars blemishing his body. It was disconcerting… and Dean silently questioned whether or not he and John were actually in control of this confrontation.

"I don't blame you for your skepticism… You think I'm a monster. You tore me to pieces and I should be hungry for retribution… And maybe you're right… But like I told those poor bastards, your crime against me doesn't even begin to compare to theirs. I want to kill them. I've wanted to kill them for over a hundred and fifty years."

Dean snorted. "No offense, pal, but if you weren't able to kill them after a hundred and fifty years, how much help could you possibly be to us now?"

Benton's cloudy eyes only added to his creepiness. "I was waiting," he somberly explained. "For Elizabeth's rebirth. My love… Killing them prematurely would have meant losing her forever. But now she's alive again… The wait's over, and so help me God, I won't rest until we're avenged. Don't you understand? We're on the same side. I can help you."

Elizabeth's rebirth? What the hell?

Dean glanced at his father, but they were suddenly interrupted by quiet groans stemming from the parlor. Eldon must be waking up… Reluctantly, Dean left John with the persuasive zombie to check on their prisoner—stunning him a second time and handcuffing his wrists behind his back. It didn't take more than a minute—if that—but the next thing he knew, John and Benton had somehow reached an understanding—they were allies. And, like it or not, up against the Stynes, they might prove useful to each other.

Subsequently, with John ready to quash any hint of betrayal, Dean and Benton carried Eldon into the basement. From there, they made their way back through the tunnel—it was not an easy trek—but they worked surprisingly well together, and soon enough Benton was passing the time by recounting his complicated history with the Stynes.

"I met Elizabeth in Germany where I attended medical school. That was back in, oh, 1810. One of my professors—my mentor—Dr. Stockmayer—introduced us. They were family friends. I loved her from the start, and surprise, surprise, she felt the same. We became inseparable."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Spare us the details, would you?" But after all those years of isolation and misery, Benton finally had people to confide in, and he couldn't help himself—even if they were his adversaries. He paused only when they reached the hatch in the garage floor, giving Dean a boost before handing up Eldon—he came next with John bringing up the rear—but then he resumed the tale with a mounting sense of urgency.

"I learned so much from them… They exposed me to the supernatural… Opened my eyes up to an extraordinary new world. We had so much fun together…"

"Fun?" Dean muttered as they broke into the Stynes' car—he took the wheel and John made sure Benton was hampered with Eldon's body in the backseat, still using his machete to encourage cooperation. In that manner, they returned to the lumber mill where they had parked John's Sierra Grande.

"But Elizabeth… She was already betrothed… to her cousin, Victor Frankenstein. You know how it went back in the nineteenth-century, especially among the elite. They don't much care about love—only convenience. So when her family finally sent for her, we tried eloping. Made it as far as Calais before they caught us. They would've killed me, too, but Elizabeth bargained for my life. I was forced back to New England, and she was taken to Geneva—to her fiancé. For years, I thought I'd never see her again… But then Dr. Stockmayer died… He left me everything he had—all his books, all his instruments—everything he knew about alchemy. And I thought if I could just master the craft, I might be able to win her back… So I gave up my practice and began experimenting… All for Elizabeth."

As Dean parked the car, he grabbed his phone and anonymously called an ambulance for Mrs. Finch. John helped Benton haul Eldon out of the backseat, and they proceeded into a high-tech facility with an impressive array of industrial equipment looming in every direction—a headrig, edgers, trimmers, sorting and stacking machines, kilns, and conveyor belts. For an impromptu interrogation room, it would certainly do the trick. While the Winchesters made themselves at home, shoving Eldon's back against a pole and cuffing his wrists behind it, Benton finished his story.

"Then, that English girl, Mary Shelley, let the cat out of the bag with her _Frankenstein_ novel. Whole family had to scramble for cover, not wanting the notoriety, and in the midst of their confusion, Elizabeth ran away, straight into my arms. She believed they forgot about me, and hoped we could finally be together. It was the happiest day of my life. But it didn't last long. The Stynes eventually tracked us down, and this time, as punishment, they killed her. Right before my eyes."

Honestly, Dean would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't a ruthless, murdering organ thief. Perhaps under better circumstances, things could have been different, but a doomed romance didn't justify killing innocent people. Still, he had to admit, the Styne family sucked ass.

"I'll never forget their words," Benton said darkly, watching as Eldon regained consciousness—he grumbled, shook his head, and took in his new surroundings with an air of resignation. "'You think you know something about life and death because you studied under Stockmayer? You ignorant fool. Years from now, give or take a century, Elizabeth will rise again, reborn, and where will you be? Rotting in your miserable grave.' That's why I became—this! I never signed up for the damn maintenance that immortality requires, but you have to understand, hunter, it couldn't be helped. Elizabeth's my soulmate, and I'll do anything—anything!—to see her again."

"Oh please," Eldon scoffed, glaring at his captors derisively while testing the strength of his handcuffs. "You're not soulmates, Benton. There's no such thing. The only reason Lilibet wants anything to do with you is cause she's an obstinate bitch who likes tormenting my father, but not even that's worth waking up to your face every morning. The moment she sees you, she'll spurn you. I can guarantee it."

Benton insecurely pressed his fingers against his cheek, well aware of his age and disfigurements. He was by no means the strapping young doctor Elizabeth fell in love with nearly two hundred years ago, and most women would shudder at the sight of him—if they were feeling generous. What made him think she'd stay faithful?

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about Romeo and Juliet if I were you," John interceded, pacing around the prisoner with his machete in plain sight. Eldon glanced at the blade soberly before meeting the hunter's gaze. "Fourteen years ago, I took a chainsaw to this guy—just because. He's a menace to society, and I make it a point to protect people. It wasn't personal. Just business. You, on the other hand… Your family has my son. Now that… That's personal."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _How will Jacob respond to Eldon's capture? Please review!_


	11. War

**SPN**

 **(Texas … Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

They were almost home, passing just north of Tyler, Texas with an hour and a half left to go. Jacob wasn't in much of a hurry—the drive from California to Louisiana was typically under thirty hours, non-stop, but since the young Winchester's abduction, it had already been thirty-six. What could he say? Something about the boy was fun—Rhett felt it too—and they weren't eager for their road trip to end.

Unfortunately, since Earl and Freddie lost the girlfriend, playtime was over. Sam remained trussed up in the cargo hold, and he wasn't going anywhere, but until they had him safe and sound at the Styne's Shreveport estate, they couldn't be too careful. Monroe made it clear, if anything happened to their prized legacy, the punishment would be severe—and he wasn't known for his leniency.

It was a shame, though. As Rhett pointed out back in the gas station, Sam had potential. The Men of Letters might be a dull and self-righteous group of pricks, but the Stynes always had a healthy respect for their many talents, and if they weren't basically extinct, they could have raised the boy as one of their most formidable operatives. In fact, if Sam had only been born seventy years earlier, he might have saved them from destruction. He was _that_ promising. Jacob could sense it. What a waste…

No. Not a waste, but a sacrifice. Sam would make one hell of a sacrifice. That's why they needed legacies in particular—no one else would do. Ordinary people were too common, and extraordinary people—like full-fledged Men of Letters—were too seasoned. Legacies were perfect. Fresh. Spotless. Worthy. And out of the three Winchesters, Sam was by far the best. After all, John was old and Dean was vulgar. They would still suffice, but Sam… He was everything a legacy should be, and that made him the most valuable.

The morning sun was starting to shine directly in Jacob's eyes and he was in the process of adjusting the visor when his phone began to ring. Sighing, he pulled it from his pocket and held it up. Eldon. Good. He would never admit it, but his brother's assignment to recover Doc Benton had made him nervous. Despite everything, the Yankee was a proven alchemist, immortal and hostile, and Eldon could be reckless at times. If he ran into trouble, there wasn't much Jacob could do from the other side of the country.

"Eldon," he said after accepting the call. "I trust everything's gone according to plan?"

"Jacob…" His brother spoke haltingly with barely suppressed anger. "You kill them for me. You understand?" There was no mistaking Eldon's tone, and Jacob felt his stomach clench. Damn. They had been trained for this, but that certainly didn't make it a pleasant experience.

"You idiot," he growled softly, conscious of his captive in the cargo hold. Sam had been mostly quiet since his outburst after the gas station, but every now and then he groaned in discomfort, either unable or unwilling to fall back asleep. The less he heard of this conversation, the better—or else it might lift his spirits. "What happened?"

Eldon started to reply, but something on his end cut him off, and as Jacob took the next exit, spotting a place to pull over, John Winchester came on the line. "Jacob Styne… From what I've been told about your family, boy, I have to say… I'm not impressed."

Cocky bastard. Jacob set his jaw and veered into a vacant parking lot while Mason glanced at him anxiously, sensing his displeasure. "Well played, sir. Very well played." He turned off the ignition and jumped out of the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. "Now what can I do for you?"

"Nothing, if I'm to believe your little brother," John replied. "He claims it would be a waste of time trying to negotiate with you. Apparently, your family's so vast that his life's expendable. He dies, and five more pop up. Must be nice. I hope that means you won't hold it against me when I kill him."

"On the contrary," Jacob said, imagining the feel of his knife slicing through the old man's belly. "We don't tolerate weakness in our household, so go ahead and put him out of his misery. It'll be a kindness compared to the punishment he'll receive for his defeat. Let me tell you something, our daddy doesn't respond well to stupidity." The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he had to save face. Eldon…

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," John feigned regret. "I would've happily traded his freedom for Sam's. But if that's the way it's gonna be, mark my words, I'm not going to stop slaughtering your relatives until I have my son back. You hear me? You've declared war on the wrong family, and it will cost you dearly."

"Is that so?" Jacob scoffed. "You don't know the first thing about waging war on the Stynes. You should have stuck to our little agreement, Mr. Winchester."

"Oh, you mean the one where I kill Doc Benton and you let Sam go? How stupid do you think I am? Forget it. In fact, he and I happened to reach an understanding, cause it turns out he hates your family as much as I do—and I'm sure you know what they say about the enemy of my enemy. So we agreed, one day I'll have to hunt him down, but for now, if he helps me rescue Sam, I'll not only help him reunite with Elizabeth, I'll let 'em both get away… Give 'em a running start… It could take me years to catch up… You know how that goes, don't you?"

"You must think you're so clever," Jacob whispered, tightening his free hand into a fist. "You should know your little boy will suffer for it."

"Nice try," John quickly replied, though anyone could hear the concern beneath his defiance. "But you're not gonna hurt him. You mentioned needing us 'alive and healthy' for whatever you have planned, and as long as Dean and I are still free, you're not gonna sacrifice your only leverage. You need him to reel us in."

Jacob managed to laugh. "Oh, Mr. Winchester… Who said anything about hurting him? Sammy's not that hard to figure out. He's soft. Compassionate. I can think of a dozen ways to break him without harming a hair on his pretty head, and mark my words, he'll never be the same again."

"Try it," John dared—it was his turn to save face. Jacob had to give him credit for his discipline. He might even be a match for Monroe. "You'll find that Sam's quite resilient. He'll be fine… which is more than I can say for Eldon. I don't have to kill him, Jacob. I'm still willing to trade. But that's up to you."

"Sorry," Jacob said. The offer was tempting, but how the hell would he explain it to his father? Monroe's wrath frightened him on a level that Eldon's death would never reach. "I suppose that's the difference between us, sir. Your family's small; your boys are irreplaceable. My family's immense, and we've got to serve the common good. That means holding onto Sammy, no matter what. And catching you."

Closing his eyes, Jacob terminated the call—no point dragging it out—and held back his fury. He warned Eldon not to underestimate the Winchesters—he warned him this could happen! Damn it! They were so close, too… so close to performing the famed ritual. It wasn't right. Why couldn't Eldon wait a week to get himself killed? Just a week? Was that too much to ask?

It wasn't just Eldon, either. Eli… Colton… Roy… They were probably dead as well. Four down… Six, once Monroe learned of Earl and Freddie's mistake. They were starting to drop like flies. John was right about one thing; this meant war. Better get home quickly; the sooner they delivered Sam, the sooner they could cope with their disgrace.

 **SPN**

 **(Beacon Valley, New Hampshire** **… Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

John cursed under his breath, staring at his phone in frustration. Naturally, a part of him expected Jacob's response—if these guys really were more devious than Bela, as she claimed, then they weren't going to let something as trivial as family stop them from completing a job. Still, it would have simplified things.

Turning, he glanced back at his three immediate responsibilities—the son he had to protect, the alchemist he had to manipulate, and the prisoner he had to kill. Eldon was a bruised and bloody mess slumped over on his knees—the handcuffs fastening his wrists behind a pole were all that kept his face from the ground. For someone in such a precarious position, nothing seemed to daunt him. He took his interrogation in stride, answering all their questions with sarcasm and ridicule, whether or not they trounced him for it, and after hours of abuse, he only surrendered a few names. Jacob's. Monroe's. Hardly pay dirt.

It was still early on a Sunday morning, and according to the hours sign posted on the lumber mill's front door, they shouldn't have to worry about hard-working employees showing up till after church let out. They had plenty of time. On the other hand, given the crime scene at Finch's Bed and Breakfast, it might be prudent to skip town as soon as possible—just in case Beacon Valley's local police were well-trained and thorough. The last thing they needed was a manhunt.

"We're going to have to do this the hard way," John told Dean, who couldn't hide his vexation. Trading Eldon for Sam was their best strategy, and so far, their alternatives were rather bleak. It would take a miracle to fight the Stynes head-on, even if they called in a dozen favors. Of course, with adequate preparation, they might be able to pull something off, but Sammy couldn't wait forever—especially not if Jacob carried out his threat. The bastard.

Eldon was laughing. "They never listen, do they?" He had to realize the end was near, and he was milking his monologues for all they were worth, regardless of the repercussions—each taunt came with a swift kick from Benton. "Give it up, Winchester. You don't stand a chance in hell."

"Oh, if I had a penny," John retorted, feeding a magazine into his M1911. They still didn't know why the Stynes needed legacies, or what legacies even were, or how Elizabeth had come back from the dead, but Eldon clearly wasn't going to spill anything else. Having already learned everything they could from him, it was time to get this show on the road.

"Be mindful of the eyes," Benton suggested almost as an afterthought. "I could use some fresh ones… and you've got to admit, it would serve him right."

John smiled grimly, aimed his gun and squeezed the trigger.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:** Ooh, t_ _hat was oddly satisfying..._

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _The Stynes aren't the only bad guys with an unhealthy interest in Sam... Please review!_


	12. Welcome to the Family

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter might be my favorite... Big twist coming up (not good for Sam)! Hope you like it!_

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

From her vantage point on the swinging bench hanging from a massive oak tree in the backyard, Elizabeth tried to make sense of what she saw in her rose crystal. It was getting late in the morning and her father's guests were starting to arrive for their picnic brunch—why anyone would want to socialize out in this humidity, she had no idea, but it was tradition, after all.

The Stynes were basically gods in their little corner of the universe, and on occasion, they liked to hold court over their favorite subjects. The Ackermans. The Lockes. Arthur and Paige Fontaine. Sheriff Treadwell. Some things never changed. The men wore their linen suits and the women their summer dresses as they dutifully gathered at the pavilion, for Monroe felt like celebrating.

Elizabeth felt like ripping out her hair. Trances always left her nauseous and inhospitable—hardly southern belle material. She shouldn't be spying on her own kin, but after everything they put her through, how could she possibly trust them with Thomas? She knew them too well, the wretched snakes. But as it turned out, they were the ones in danger. They were the ones struck down by the Winchesters, and now Thomas was conspiring with their enemies. And she was at a loss.

She couldn't blame Thomas for his aggression—he had every reason to lash out. God knows she would have done the same in his place. But now Eldon, Eli, Roy and Colton were dead, and she was torn between giddiness and grief—they deserved what they got… but they were still family. She was torn between fear and excitement—Monroe would crave vengeance… but Thomas was coming to claim her. She loved him terribly… but the stakes were high, and a violent rampage might not be in their best interests. So how was she supposed to respond?

Hoping to clear her head and avoid their guests, Elizabeth slipped off the bench and trudged around the perimeter to the front of the mansion. The Stynes had a carefully manicured lawn, but it wasn't easy to traverse in heels, especially with her floral tea-length dress sticking to her skin. That's it. She hated Louisiana.

Just as it crossed her mind to poison everyone's tea, a blue cargo van coasting up the driveway grabbed her attention. She didn't recognize it, and no one in polite society would ever touch it—so it must be Jacob. Finally. They were expecting him hours ago, and with all their guests in the backyard, things were about to get interesting. Elizabeth smirked, picking up her pace.

The van parked at the foot of the front porch, and by the time she reached it, Jacob and Mason were jumping out of the rear. They smiled at the sight of her, and Jacob quickly caught her in his arms, kissing her forehead, but something wasn't right. She could sense his agitation and wondered if he knew about Eldon. Probably. John Winchester would have called to strike a deal. Or gloat. Either way, Jacob wasn't happy to be home.

"I missed you, Lilibet," he whispered as they turned to watch Rhett guide their captive from the cargo hold. Sam Winchester. He was taller than she expected, but overall, he seemed so… vulnerable. With his wrists tied behind his back, he couldn't brush the hair from his eyes, and dressed only in jeans and a charcoal T-shirt—completely barefoot—he had a boyish look about him. To top it off, he was gagged and as Rhett eased him down to Mason, the sunlight made him wince.

Elizabeth licked her lips, inadvertently picturing his big brother, Dean—a sexy beast who fostered a devil-may-care attitude. On the surface, they couldn't have been more different, which no doubt contributed to Dean's protective nature. If he could see Sam right now, he'd be livid, and the thought made Elizabeth smile.

"So he's our legacy?" she asked, sauntering up to him in amusement. He stared at her suspiciously and would have recoiled as she stroked his chest, but Mason restrained him, so he averted his eyes. Elizabeth had to admit he'd be fun to play with. They had time. Thomas and the other Winchesters were over sixteen hundred miles away, and they weren't about to board a plane. "We should take him inside before our guests see him."

"Good call," Jacob agreed. After a day and a half on the road where he was no doubt made uncomfortable, Sam struggled to walk as Rhett and Mason ushered him up the porch. Elizabeth led the way, eagerly anticipating how his company might assuage the pain of Eldon and Eli's murders. So many possibilities… Where to begin?

But as she pulled open the front door, the five of them were met by Monroe—and despite his calm demeanor, even Sam recognized his indignation. They all braced themselves for a serious reprimand—whenever their patriarch changed so quickly from delight to disgust, someone always paid for it.

"Upstairs," he said icily. "Now."

"Yes sir." Jacob sidled between his father and his cousin, shielding her as they hastened deeper into the house like children caught stealing from the cookie jar. They practically dragged Sam up the spiral staircase before turning into Monroe's personal study. It was a spacious room with a Persian carpet under an antique writing desk, leather recliners, two built-in bookshelves, a liquor cabinet and access to the balcony. Presently, a certain member of their family was loitering by the French doors, observing the picnic below with his hands tucked casually in his pockets.

"Eldon," Elizabeth said as everyone in their group stopped short. Jacob caught his breath while Rhett and Mason glanced at each other nervously—only years of discipline kept them from overreacting. Eldon was supposedly dead, killed in New England. How could he possibly be here?

But it wasn't Eldon. As the spry young man turned to greet them, his eyes—or rather the empty sockets where his eyes once sat—shimmered with an eerie yellow glow. He smiled at each of them in turn, but his gaze lingered on their prisoner, who looked back at him in dismay. "Hiya, Sammy! It's been too long."

"Rhett... Mason..." Monroe said, following them into the study. "Help the boy to a seat, would you? Then clean yourselves up and get some brunch."

The demon possessing Eldon's corpse chuckled as they obediently steered Sam to the French Fauteuil chair by the writing desk. They anxiously untied his wrists, sat him down, and reapplied the ropes, pinioning him to the armrests. He didn't bother fighting—his attention remained fixed on the demon. They knew each other? It amazed Elizabeth that they both survived a past encounter. Surely one would have killed the other.

After pulling Sam's ankles underneath the chair and tethering them to the back legs, Rhett and Mason made a quick retreat—the former patting the boy's shoulder as he went. They closed the door behind them, and Eldon promptly perched himself up on the desk, basking in Sam's predicament. "You don't remember me, kiddo. That's okay. You were just a baby at the time. And look at you now! Still so… adorable."

Sam shrank back in mounting alarm as Jacob stealthily drew a Kurdish knife from his belt—it had a serrated blade with ancient inscriptions imbuing it with power. Such weapons could slay demons, and Elizabeth covered her mouth, reluctant to watch her cousin stab his own brother—possessed or not. Eldon might already be dead, but that didn't help. They were still family.

Sensing Jacob's hostility, the demon glanced over his shoulder and sneered at them. "You're joking, right?"

"Jacob, that's enough," Monroe quickly snapped. "It won't work. Azazel here is Hell's finest general, so show some respect."

Jacob growled, but nevertheless sheathed the knife with a loathsome, "Yes sir." Eldon—Azazel—winked pompously before turning back to Sam.

"So," he said, leaning forward on his elbows. "You're a legacy. I always knew you came from good hunting stock, but the Men of Letters, too? Now that's quite extraordinary. No wonder you're my favorite."

It wasn't everyday you learned that a demon general from Hell had you singled out since infancy as his 'favorite,' and Sam blanched at the news. Shaking his head, he bit down on his gag and strained against the ropes—not that it did much good. His chair was sturdy and he was exhausted, in no condition to escape.

Azazel sighed. "Oh, Sammy, I hope you realize things like this wouldn't happen if you'd just apply yourself to your training. You have so much potential. Why'd you have to run away?" He spoke with fatherly concern and a trace of disappointment. "I suppose John was too lenient. Very well. If he can't handle your upbringing, perhaps foster care's in order."

The implications of that remark made Sam freeze, which normally would have thrilled Elizabeth… but a demon was possessing her dead cousin, and she just wasn't in the mood. "What the hell's going on here? Uncle Monroe—?"

Without warning, the old man turned on her, slapping her across the face so savagely that she careened into the liquor cabinet. She gasped, her cheek burning as the familiar rush of childhood pain, fear and hatred flared once more through her body. Was it any wonder why she ran away?

"You watch your tongue, Lilibet," Monroe advised as she regained her footing. She glared at him bitterly, feeling just as trapped as Sam. "You're to blame for all this, you little trollop. My son is dead. My nephews are dead. And your boyfriend? Not only is he aiding and abetting the Winchesters, he stole Eldon's eyes! Look at him!" Monroe pointed at Azazel, who watched their exchange with a smile. The yellow glow in his empty sockets were positively abhorrent, and Elizabeth suppressed the urge to shudder.

"We knew what we were signing up for, father," Jacob spoke hesitantly, defending Elizabeth against his better judgment. The hell? When did he grow such a backbone? "Eldon's death… It wasn't her fault."

"No?" Monroe scoffed. "Well, we're fixing to get the short end of the stick here, boy. If we're to believe Azazel, and we have no reason not to, our legacy's tainted. We can't use him for the ritual, and if his family keeps eluding us, then it's all been for nothing."

Startled, Elizabeth and Jacob both glanced from Monroe to Sam to Azazel. Tainted? How?

"Now that's the spirit," the demon teased, alighting from the desk. "Way to stay positive." He ambled around Sam's chair and leaned over his shoulder, catching Elizabeth's gaze. "Fancy a looksee?" Sam squirmed as Azazel reached down to untie his left wrist, which he then handled with expert care while exposing the palm for Elizabeth to read. He stretched it out to her provocatively. "Don't be shy, now. You might enjoy it."

Elizabeth was easily the Styne family's best fortune-teller, so if anyone could verify the demon's allegations, it'd be her. Better not test Monroe's patience. Rubbing her cheek, she crossed over to the captive and knelt in front of him. He groaned, trying to wrench his arm free, but Azazel held him steady with minimal effort as Elizabeth caressed his hand. At first glance, it bore a striking resemblance to Dean's—they were definitely brothers—but this time, she wasn't going to stick with the basics. She wasn't going to let Sam break her trance the way Dean had—not until she knew everything there was to know about him.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged in, surrendering to the euphoria of her vision—it would leave her sick afterwards, but that was more than a fair trade. Sam was beautiful, and as she immersed herself in his fate, she savored the feel of his sweet and spoiled energy. How strange… His heart was pure, but his blood was foul. Contaminated. Demonic.

Like Dean, his life was marked by tragedy and violence. He felt profound love for his family, and he craved reconciliation, peace and normalcy… But nothing could ever mend his broken spirit. Deep down, he was angry, scared, frustrated and confused… He tried hiding it, but there wasn't any doubt… He just didn't belong… He was an outcast… And the loneliness was unbearable.

Yes, he was a skilled hunter. Yes, he was a gifted legacy. But there was more. Latent psychic abilities. Power. Emptiness. Hunger. Suppression.

A receptacle? A vessel.

Elizabeth sensed the danger, but couldn't help herself—the boy was more fascinating than anything she'd had seen in a long time. She pressed on, searching for greater insight, even as her body began to shake. Sam was already spoken for. Something truly malevolent—worse than Azazel, worse than Monroe—had a claim on him. That's why they couldn't sacrifice him. He was too precious to waste. But who was it? Who owned him? She had to know…

Flashes of blinding white light…

A high-pitched, chiming peal…

Evil like nothing of this world…

Incomprehensible evil…

She shrieked, snapping hysterically from her trance. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor, vomiting over Monroe's carpet. Jacob was instantly at her side, helping steady her as she floundered. "No… That's not… It can't be!"

"Easy there, Lilibet," Jacob whispered, wrapping his arms around her. She pressed against him like a pathetic damsel in distress, struggling to cope with an overwhelming revelation. Meanwhile, Azazel laughed as he tied Sam's wrist back to the armrest—the boy was trembling as much as Elizabeth.

"He's the one, isn't he? I certainly hoped, but now I can rest assured." The demon blew her a kiss. "Thanks, doll. I really owe you for that. Just think of all the time it'll save."

"What are you talking about?" Monroe asked uncertainly. He knew Elizabeth well enough to appreciate the intensity of her reaction. Somehow, they had stumbled upon the discovery of a lifetime, and it could either be a blessing or a curse. Better cooperate and make it a blessing.

"Oh, let's not ruin the surprise," Azazel said gleefully. He proceeded to massage Sam's shoulders, clearly getting off on his revulsion. "Let's just say in a couple years, I can make you obscenely rich. You Stynes profit from anarchy, don't you? Well, there's gonna be a bumper crop very soon, mark my words. Only thing is… it requires Sammy here to play his part, so… I can't let you kill him. Sorry, but that's off the table."

Sam clenched his eyes shut—this little nightmare was no doubt worse than he expected, and it had barely begun. Meanwhile, Jacob eased Elizabeth into the nearest recliner as she recovered from her own ordeal. Fear gradually churned to wonder, and from wonder to awe. How could it be? Was it true? Of all the legends… Lucifer?

But she could not yet voice her thoughts, and after a beat, Monroe scowled. "No sir. That ain't gonna fly. I just suffered a devastating loss, and someone has to pay. Now. Empty promises won't do me any good."

Azazel held his hands up passively. "Look… Technically, I'm off the clock. I still have a year left of vacation, and I don't appreciate being short-changed. In fact, I should be on the war path for this interruption, but I happen to like your family. Truly. You want justice? I can respect that. But do us all a favor, and make it poetic. John killed your son? The best payback would be to adopt his." He raked his fingers roughly through Sam's hair. "I wasn't kidding when I mentioned foster care. What do you say? John and Dean are still fair game. You want to sacrifice them for your family ritual, go ahead. I'm all for that. Kill the girlfriend, too, and make Sammy watch."

The gag muffled Sam's protests, but he couldn't contain himself any longer. Azazel had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, such a response only worked in the demon's favor—Monroe was sadistic enough to jump on board any scheme that might torment his victims like this.

"We're only talking a year-long commitment, here," Azazel continued. "Two, at the max. My trusty minions will come fetch him after that, but I need him sharp and ready for what's in store. You're uniquely qualified, Monroe, and I can guarantee it's worth your while. Interested?"

The look on Sam's face nearly sealed the deal. After all, it wasn't grief that upset Monroe about Eldon's death. It was embarrassment. And with sufficient compensation, he could overcome embarrassment—it wouldn't even be the first time. He sighed, gradually caving in. "Jacob, you've spent time with the boy. Elizabeth, you've read his palm. What do you reckon?"

"It'd be an honor…" she fumbled over the words like a simpleton, but couldn't let her uncle pass up such an opportunity. "Practically safeguarding the Holy Grail."

"Ooh," Azazel nodded and winked at her appreciatively. "Right on the mark."

"With all due respect, sir, let's just think about this." Jacob's crossed arms and furrowed brow made it clear he'd be hard to convince. "We're talking about a legacy. A hunter. One of the good guys. I know firsthand how stalwart and selfless he is, and you expect me to believe he's corruptible?"

"Everyone's corruptible," Azazel cursorily replied. "What? You don't like challenges?"

Jacob bristled, but managed to curb his temper. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to the idea. Sam's been a treat, and I'll admit I've grown fond of him. So has Rhett. Problem is, he's still a handful, and the moment any of us drop our guard around him, you can be sure he'll screw us. We have to know what we're getting ourselves into; we have to know he's worth the trouble."

Azazel shrugged. "I let the girl read his palm, didn't I? Don't you trust her judgment?" Pushing away from Sam, he sauntered over to Monroe. "Come on, old friend. We know each other—I wouldn't ask just anyone. Do this for me, and I promise you won't regret it." He held out his hand, and after a beat, Monroe shook it with renewed aplomb. Sam moaned at the sight.

"Excellent." The demon clapped in jubilation. "Well, I've got places to be, so I won't keep you from your guests outside." He spun on his heel toward their sullen captive. "Take care now, Sammy. I've got a lot riding on you." And with that, he vanished into thin air. For Elizabeth, it felt like a weight lifting from the room, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Well," Monroe said, crossing over to his new 'son' for a closer look. "Let's see what we've got here." He circled around the chair, inspecting the boy from all sides. "How old are you? Twenty-one? I suppose you'll have to unlearn a few things—namely the idea you're some kind of adult. Don't worry; your new cousin Lilibet's in the same boat. I just hope for your sake, you're not as stubborn as she is."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes while Sam shook his head—which Monroe swiftly subdued by grabbing his chin. "One more thing. I don't stand for back talk. You'll show me the proper respect, son, or there'll be hell to pay." Without breaking his hold, Monroe peered over at Jacob. "Why don't you get him settled in the attic? Then you can freshen up and join us for brunch outside."

"Yes sir."

"Good." Monroe smiled back at Sam. "We might as well let him stew for awhile. Focus on our other legacies first. After all, once they're procured, we'll have ample time to teach him the ropes around here, so let's not get sidetracked." Sam flinched, clearly rattled and helpless to resist—which Elizabeth found validating. She beamed at him.

After brushing some of the hair from his face, Monroe left him with Jacob and helped Elizabeth to her feet. Together, they made their way out of the study, but as they reached the door, the old man glanced back one last time. "Oh, and Sam… Welcome to the family."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Dean learns more about legacies... Please review!_


	13. Battle Plans

**SPN**

 **(Nebraska** **… Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

Harvelle's Roadhouse stood approximately thirteen-hundred miles, give or take, east of Lake Tahoe. Stopping only for fuel, Bobby drove as quickly as possible without garnering police attention. He would have preferred flying, but his young charge didn't have any form of identification—the Stynes took her purse—and it was too risky to return to Stanford. Until they resolved their present crisis, Jessica needed somewhere safe to lie low, and they were short on options.

Posing as a U.S. Marshal, Bobby explained that Sam was in the Witness Protection Program and his kidnappers were part of a dangerous crime syndicate. He wasn't at liberty to elaborate, but needless to say, it wouldn't be wise for Jess to remain at the hospital. Therefore, they fled in a crummy rental car around 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night and spent the next nineteen hours hightailing it to Nebraska. Under different circumstances, Bobby might have felt the sleep deprivation—he was going on two full days—but Sam and Dean… They were like sons to him—the only kids he'd ever have—and right now, sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.

Overall, Jess was taking the whole situation rather well. Despite her fear, her scattered thoughts, and her utter exhaustion, she bore traces of fortitude and perseverance. When Bobby advised her against calling her parents, she listened, and when he warned her about missing the start of school, she shrugged it off. Her only concern was for Sam, and Bobby didn't know whether to appreciate that, or dread it. Of course, he wanted Sam to find someone special—and Jessica fit the bill—but then again, he knew all too well the perils of falling in love.

At one point, during a surge of righteous anger, she kicked the glove compartment and elbowed the passenger side door. "What the hell were you doing in South Dakota? I mean, isn't it negligent to leave a witness unprotected like that? You should have been there."

Bobby sighed, not that he could blame her for asking fair questions. Sometimes, lying was tricky business. "I'm sorry, Jess. I wish to God I'd been there, but I was off duty… And Sam shouldn't have been unprotected. My partner… Well, let's just say the Stynes got to him first." He idly wondered why John never asked anyone to keep tabs on the kid, but then thought better of it. Sam wouldn't have the patience for spies or bodyguards.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, pulling up at the Roadhouse on Sunday afternoon. The parking lot was mostly barren, but that would no doubt change in a few short hours. Better take advantage of the privacy.

"That's a safe house?" Jess stared at the dilapidated saloon with a frown. Obviously, it wasn't what she had in mind. Compared to her description of the Styne mansion where she was held by Freddie and Earl, this place was a shack with no security to speak of. Bobby offered her an encouraging smile.

"Don't judge a book by its cover," he said. "You have friends here, Jess, and they won't take kindly to the Stynes. Come on." They climbed out of the car and marched up to the front door—it was locked. Mindful of the civilian, Bobby chose to follow social customs and pounded on the glass. "ELLEN! ANSWER THE DOOR, DAMN IT!"

He heard someone shuffling around inside, and seconds later, a small but brazen woman appeared in the threshold. Like always, she dressed the part of a hunter—ever on guard for monsters and willful teenagers—while looking incredible with her fierce dark eyes and shoulder-length, fawn-colored hair. "Bobby?"

"Ellen!" He jerked his head toward the girl next to him. "This is Jessica Moore. We need your help." She must have read the urgency on his face, for she didn't hesitate to let them in. They gathered around the dingy bar, which had seen better days. The stools were all mismatched, and the wood railing that sectioned off the pool table was in disrepair. Hunters. They sure made it difficult to run a nice establishment—not that Ellen cared. With her daughter acting up, she had other things on her mind.

"What's going on?" she asked in concern while Jess took in her surroundings.

"Long story short?" Bobby paused, carefully considering his words. "You remember John Winchester?" Stupid question. Ellen's face tightened and she crossed her arms, nodding grimly. "Well, his boy Sam was kidnapped on Friday night. Jess too, but she escaped."

"You're kidding!" Any resent Ellen might have felt quickly evaporated, and she leapt to the girl's side as if to check for injuries. "Are you all right? What the hell was it?" Not many people could get away with mothering a stranger, but Ellen was one of the select few, and Jess finally managed to breathe a little easier. Bobby relaxed, appreciating the assistance—he certainly didn't know how to comfort and care for college girls.

"An ambush," Jess said, misunderstanding the question. "There were five of them, and Sam… I don't know what he was thinking. He couldn't hurt a fly! But he wanted to protect me, so he tried holding them off, and it was just… a disaster."

"Oh, honey," Ellen sympathized before casting a dubious look at Bobby. She knew John Winchester and there was no way in hell his son couldn't hurt a fly. As subtly as possible, Bobby positioned himself behind Jessica while stroking his beard. Then he pressed a finger to his lips, and Ellen took the hint. "I'm so sorry," she told the girl. "Let me show you to the back. My daughter, Jo, can brew you a cup of coffee and get you whatever you need. Bobby will catch me up, and then we can figure out our next move. How's that sound?"

"Thank you," Jess said, less than eager to relive the past forty-eight hours. As Ellen ushered her away from the bar, Bobby helped himself to the Roadhouse liquor. He had a long consultation ahead of him, so he might as well make himself at home.

 **SPN**

Some time later, Bobby found himself sitting at the corner table across from Ellen and an eccentric computer genius named Ash. In their line of work, appearances could be deceiving, so it wasn't hard to get over the guy's blonde mullet, not to mention the dazed look on his angular face. His bare arms could do with some extra meat, but then again, if someone as flimsy as Garth could handle the job, Ash had nothing to worry about. No, it wasn't his fashion statement that dumbfounded Bobby; it was his battle plan.

"That has to be the craziest idea I've ever heard!"

They were discussing the Stynes, Sam's predicament, and whether or not they could back up John and Dean from the safety of the Roadhouse. Bobby had promised to baby-sit Jessica, and while he had every faith in Ellen's ability to protect the girl—she had plenty of experience protecting Jo, after all—a promise was a promise. So as much as he wanted to join the fight, he resigned himself to warming the bench. That being said, if they had the opportunity to send help, they weren't about to hold back—just as long as it made reasonable sense.

"I know it's unconventional," Ellen began, but Bobby cut her off.

"That's an understatement! We're talking about real people, here! They didn't sign up for this crap!"

"Technically not," Ash allowed, leaning back in his chair. "But you can't deny they're highly trained, heavily armed, and far more qualified than you were on your first hunt. Honestly, they're an underutilized resource."

Bobby fumed. "Spoken like a manipulative bastard."

"There's no need for name-calling," Ellen said impatiently. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "Look, we're not just throwing them to the wolves, here. John and Dean will have their backs. I know!" She anticipated his rebuttal. "Believe me, I know. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so unless you've got something better up your sleeve…" She shrugged and Bobby racked his brain for alternatives.

Unfortunately, even if they could recruit an army of hunters, it might take days to mobilize them—and then what? They weren't exactly known for being cooperative team players. Case in point, Bobby considered John a good friend, and he still threatened to shoot him in the face. "Balls…"

Ellen nodded, turning back to Ash. "And you're sure you can orchestrate all this?"

He chuckled. "Please. Give me a challenge! The Stynes might be using magic to breed chaos, but if they're profiteering in this Digital Age of ours, and you know where to look—which I do—something incriminating is bound to turn up. And on the off-chance that it doesn't, let's just say I've got the wherewithal to plant some dirt. One way or another, the FBI's about to receive one hell of an anonymous tip—and when they learn they've got a hostage on their hands, they're not gonna dilly dally."

"You sure about that?" Bobby asked.

"Trust me," Ash said. "When I'm done, the Stynes'll be high up on the Most Wanted List."

 **SPN**

 **(Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

The only good thing about twenty-plus hours confined in a truck with a supernatural scientist was that it made for some interesting conversation. In fact, it warranted conversation—talking kept things in perspective, reminding the lovesick monster who his enemies really were—the Stynes, not the hunter who tore his heart out all those years ago. John realized his best chance at surviving the trip from New England to Louisiana was to distract Doc Benton from the bad blood between them, and it seemed to do the trick.

Besides, when it came to his line of work, knowledge was power, and as much as it pained him to admit, John had plenty to learn. The basics of immortality? He'd be a fool to brush off such valuable information a second time—especially if he could somehow use it to help his son.

According to the alchemist, "transmutation" was an ordinary occurrence in the physical world. Seeds become plants. Grapes become wine. Caterpillars become butterflies... Under the right conditions, humans can even change the properties of various minerals—their color, their hardness, etc. Through science, such transmutations can be regulated—it just requires the correct formula.

With the proper ingredients, a mixture is created… Then the mixture is refined into a compound… Then the compound is repeatedly purified by fire… Each time it changes, it acquires a new essence, until finally it becomes a substance containing within its core every last essence on Earth—otherwise known as the philosopher's stone and elixir of life.

Because the philosopher's stone shares the essence of all matter, it can manipulate all matter, either by hastening or obstructing normal transmutations. A common misconception back in the Dark Ages was that, over thousands of years, all base metals would eventually turn into gold. In theory, the philosopher's stone would serve as a catalyst, forcing that natural process to occur instantaneously. Unfortunately, since gold isn't actually produced through mineral transmutation, that line of logic would never pan out.

On the other hand… immortality was entirely within reach.

"There's still so much left to discover," Doc Benton confessed. "My old mentor, Dr. Stockmayer, did most of the research, and I'm not sure I understand it all. How do humans experience transmutation? Because transmutation, as you can see by my appearance, is not synonymous with aging. I still age; my organs still wear out. So it must have something to do with the soul. Our bodies are conceived, we are born, and we die. Through it all, our souls exist in different forms. Perhaps that explains the existence of ghosts…"

In any case, Doc Benton would never die unless he used the philosopher's stone to return himself to normal. Or, John couldn't help but contemplate, unless he used the stone to hasten his demise. How easily could such a powerful object be weaponized?

Hell… He had best take care… Alchemy was the fine line between science and dark magic… It was a dangerous line… And tempting to cross… With Sam's life in danger, John wasn't afraid to push boundaries, to think outside the box—the end justified the means—and if it required him to become the very thing he hated most—a relentless monster—he didn't know if he could resist.

 **SPN**

Back in the Impala, Dean tried to keep his nerves at bay as he followed his father's truck southwest. How long could they seriously expect Doc Benton to play ball? Just because the whole 'enemy of my enemy' thing made sense in theory didn't mean they could depend on it, and sooner or later, the monster would resurface to even the score against the hunter. It was inevitable, and Dean chafed at the thought of John chauffeuring around such a threat.

Even though the first leg of their journey proved uneventful, affirming Benton's allegiance, Dean still anticipated betrayal at every turn, and it was draining. What if the immortal psychopath made a grab for the wheel and crashed the truck? It wouldn't be a problem for him to walk away from the wreckage of a massive pileup. They were gambling with their lives—and the lives of everyone around them—and it made Dean sick. What would Sammy say if he knew…?

With such thoughts gnawing mercilessly at him, Dean was grateful to hear his phone ring. He whipped it open with a hectic, "Yeah?"

"Hello, Dean."

It was not a voice he knew well, but it was certainly one he recognized. "Well, I'll be damned," he growled, picturing the blonde fortune-teller from Lily Dale. "Elizabeth Lavenza Styne. Did my palm give away my number, on top of everything else?"

"I know you have every reason to be angry, Dean," she said calmly. "But we don't have time for verbal sparring. If I'm still on my cousin's cell when he gets out of the shower, he'll want to know why I'm calling you. I don't exactly have phone privileges at the moment."

Her cousin… Eldon's brother, Jacob… The dick who kidnapped Sam. Words could not express Dean's anger. "When this is over, I'm going to feed your body to a pack of ghouls, you bitch."

"Charming," she said acerbically. "Look, if you don't want my help—"

"Your help?" Dean scoffed. "What the hell makes you think—? Why? Why, for the love of God, would I want your help? This whole thing is your fault!"

"Oh, it is? Personally, I think it's your father's fault for ripping out my beloved's heart. But that's beside the point. Fact is, I know you're in league with Thomas, and if he can stomach working together, I can too. I'm sure by now you've heard the story… I want to crucify my family as much as y'all—maybe more—so let me help."

"Fine. Help Sam escape."

"Obviously that's the plan," she snapped irately. "But it's not that simple. Your brother's under lock and key. He is literally the most valuable catch my family's made in fifty years, and believe me when I say they're handling him with care."

Somehow, Dean didn't think she meant they were being gentle. He winced. "What do they want with us? What's so special about legacies?"

Elizabeth hesitated… "We're wasting time here, but if you must know… Back in the day, there used to be a secret order of wise and powerful sages known as the Men of Letters. They claimed to be the defenders of humanity, though I suspect you hunters deserve most of the credit—they didn't like to get their hands dirty. Anyway, their children, their heirs—you, your dad and your brother—are called legacies. And if it hadn't been for some disaster back in 1958 that wiped most of them out, y'all would have been raised as high-level strategists rather than low-level grunts. Still, the potential is there. As legacies, the three of you have unrealized, untapped power emanating deep within your very souls—and if my family can harness it, we can perform an ancient ritual that basically facilitates our reincarnation after we die. That's how I was reborn in 1984 after my family killed me in 1820. Unfortunately, it's not a permanent spell—we have to repeat it with each new generation, and since you've become an endangered species, this might be our last opportunity."

For a long moment, Dean was speechless. That was the craziest, most outlandish thing he'd ever heard, and yet it fit with everything he knew so far. Could it be true? 1958? His dad would have been four-years-old, right around the time Grandpa Winchester abandoned him. What if—? What if it wasn't really abandonment? But some kind of supernatural disaster? What did that even mean?

"I know it's a lot to process," Elizabeth said. "But you have to bear with me, Dean. Now that your brother's safely tucked away, you're next on the list. We need to make a plan."

Dean shuddered, then snapped himself out of his stupor. "All right. What did you have in mind?"

"Not over the phone," she protested. "I have to make sure Thomas really is on board before I help you. Let's meet up somewhere. The southern bank of the Cross Bayou Bridge might work. It's abandoned, so Thomas shouldn't attract too much attention—I do know about his face, not that it matters. What time will you be in Shreveport?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, reluctant to trust her. This could very well be a trap, and he better run it by John first. "Barring anymore delays, noon tomorrow," he lied—they were actually set to arrive early in the morning—thanks to swift driving, plenty of caffeine and lack of sleep—and that would give them a few hours to prepare. "Oh, and fair warning... If you make me regret this, I swear to God, I'll kill you myself."

"You won't regret it. I promise. We'll get your brother out of this, Dean, and together, we'll make sure my family never bothers you again. I just want to be with Thomas. So tomorrow at noon. Cross Bayou Bridge. Don't be late."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _So, apparently there's an online resource called "Jo's Journal," which says that Bobby began visiting the Roadhouse in 1993, and Ash showed up in 2001. The timing totally works. :-)_

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Things aren't going well for Sam... Dean gets in trouble with the law... Please review!_


	14. No Going Back

**SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … Sunday, September 26, 2004)**

Over the years, Sam had seen his fair share of creepy attics, and unsurprisingly, the Stynes' did not disappoint. Cluttered with piles of junk—old paintings, broken furniture, a piano, rolled-up rugs and more boxes than he could count, it would have felt like an ordinary storage room if it weren't for the intercom 'lightening the mood' with perpetual jazz music. Truth was, the more he listened to it, the more sinister it became, heightening his despondency.

Jacob had left him at the far end of the room where he sat with his back up against the wall and his wrists manacled to steel loops down near the baseboard. The chains gave very little slack, and he couldn't lift his arms from his sides, much less stand up. His knees and ankles were once again tied together, and the gag remained firmly in place. It was unbearable. Wrestling with his restraints got him nowhere, and after hours—days?—of captivity, he couldn't help but imagine the rest of his life here.

That demon wanted the Stynes to 'raise' him… and his words were stuck on endless repeat in Sam's memory.

"So _... You're a legacy. I always knew you came from good hunting stock, but the Men of Letters, too? Now that's quite extraordinary. No wonder you're my favorite… You Stynes profit from anarchy, don't you? Well, there's gonna be a bumper crop very soon, mark my words. Only thing is… it requires Sammy here to play his part, so… I can't let you kill him. Sorry, but that's off the table… We're only talking a year-long commitment, here… Two, at the max. My trusty minions will come fetch him after that, but I need him sharp and ready for what's in store…"_

To make things even more ominous, after reading his palm, Elizabeth compared him to the Holy Grail—no doubt an evil, satanic version rather than the real one. In their minds, that made him some kind of precious, priceless artifact who could—and would—wreak havoc in the world. Was that why…? The thought made Sam cringe. Was that why his mom had been murdered? Was it his fault?

Damn it. Where was dad? Where was Dean? On the one hand, he would give anything to see them again, but on the other, he couldn't bear the thought of the Stynes sacrificing them for some perverted family ritual. If they died… and Sam had to live without them… as a prisoner… it would drive him mad. Which of course might be the demon's plan. And Jessica… How could he let this happen to her?

It wasn't fair. He just wanted a normal life—and safety. Out of everyone in the world, why did it have to be him?

Time seemed to drag in that dreary, windowless attic. Lit only by a flickering bulb near the door—as grating as the jazz music—Sam found himself jumping at shadows. Honestly, he didn't know how much more of this he could endure without breaking down. And so he prayed… There had to be something good out there to rival the bad, right? God… Angels… Something! He prayed for divine intervention even as he feared the possibility that God might want nothing to do with a demon's personal 'favorite.'

Maybe that's why his life felt so cursed… Maybe it actually was cursed…

In the distance, he heard approaching footsteps. Just great. He fidgeted nervously as Jacob's tall henchman Rhett appeared in the door, carrying an army canteen. "How 'ya holding up, Sammy?" He made his way through the clutter and stared down at the prisoner with a lopsided grin. "I heard the good news. We're gonna be family. Ain't that something?"

Sam rolled his eyes, mostly for show, since he found the idea more alarming than ridiculous. As much as he loved John and Dean, their family was still dysfunctional, but compared to the Stynes… Damn… If they made it out of this, he would never complain about his dad again. Unfortunately, that was a mighty big 'if.'

"Don't worry," Rhett said, pinning Sam's legs to the floor as he knelt over him. "You've grown on us. We'll grow on you." He took the gag off and helped remove the wadded cloth from Sam's mouth. "That better?"

It might have been, but Sam breathed in a plume of dust and started coughing. He shook his head, chains rattling as he instinctively wrenched his arms up—but the manacles held them down. He remained as helpless as ever. "Get away from me!"

"You have to eat," Rhett calmly replied, pulling the lid off the canteen. Sam's eyes widened, but he couldn't prevent the bastard from grabbing his jaw and pushing his head back. He pressed the spout into Sam's mouth, force-feeding him cold soup. Sam groaned, writhing miserably, but Rhett's grasp was strong, and somehow he kept from spilling. "You shouldn't be fighting, boy. This is good for you. It's been two days since you've eaten anything. I'm surprised you're not thanking me."

Humming along to the music, he waited to make sure Sam drank every last drop before releasing his jaw, and then he sneered. "Well? What do you say?"

"Go to hell!" Sam met his gaze rebelliously. "And take your whole damn family with you." Good thing he had so much practice berating John. It would come in handy here, if it was his only means of defending himself. He wasn't broken yet.

Rhett, however, didn't have John's patience—which was really saying something—and he responded with a swift and aggressive backhand. Sam's face snapped to his left, throbbing painfully, but he held back a wounded cry.

"We'll have to work on your manners," Rhett said. "Stynes are civilized, after all." He chuckled, pulling up his left sleeve to reveal a black crest tattooed on the inside of his wrist—it had a two-headed bird with prominent wings, sharp talons and a shield. "See? We have our own coat-of-arms and everything. What do you think? You'll be getting one just like it in a few hours."

"What?" Sam's heart skipped a beat as he glanced from the tattoo up to his captor. "No! You can't!" They were going to brand him?

"Like you can stop us?" Rhett clucked his tongue. "Please, Sammy. It's part of your initiation, and if you don't cooperate, we will sedate you."

Sam renewed his efforts to break free, but the damn manacles held him fast. "You son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you!"

Rhett sighed, reaching back for the discarded gag. He bunched up the cloth and roughly shoved it into Sam's mouth, resecuring it with the bandana around Sam's head. "Jacob's right—you're shaping up to be a little brat, aren't you? No matter. We were gonna ease you into the family, but since Elizabeth set a trap for John and Dean, we thought we'd at least slap some ink on you, so they can die knowing who your real family is."

Sam thrashed furiously, which only made Rhett grin.

"Fact is, they never cared about you, boy. Not really. Otherwise, they would've dragged you home from that school of yours, kicking and screaming if necessary. Cause the rule is, you don't walk out on family. Ever. And if they loved you, they would've enforced that rule, no matter the consequences. You'll see. It's how we run things in our household."

Sam shook his head, scared and frantic, but there wasn't anything he could do, and Rhett was clearly savoring it.

"You know," he purred. "I'm really looking forward to this." After patting his captive's knee, he took his leave, stopping only long enough to increase the volume of the intercom. The jazz music blared, and Sam couldn't keep from trembling.

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

Needless to say, Dean did not show up at Cross Bayou Bridge as scheduled at noon the next day. After all, he wasn't stupid—and besides, it turned out Bobby and some of his old hunting pals had a better idea! Sort of… And so he found himself standing in the last place on Earth he ever expected to seek help… The Shreveport police department.

It was a little disorienting, waiting in line like an average Joe. He left his weapons in the car to pass through security, and now, surrounded by strangers—any of whom could be affiliated with the Stynes—he felt like a sitting duck.

The lobby was large and well-lit with a polished floor, several benches and a wide reception desk where three different clerks toiled behind bullet-proof glass. To top it all off, a second-story landing loomed overhead, exposing Dean and his fellow civilians to whoever—or whatever—held the high ground. It was not comforting. If the Stynes controlled the local authorities, as John suspected, then Dean was officially behind enemy lines and conscious of his vulnerability.

God, he hoped they all knew what they were doing…

Gradually, the men and women in front of him finished their business and darted off in various directions. Dean approached the window where a heavyset, middle-aged lady with red hair beckoned him impatiently. She wore cat-eye glasses and bright red lipstick, and when she saw his hesitation, she forced a smile. "Is there something I can help you with, mister?"

"Yeah," he said grimly, masking his uneasiness as much as possible. If things went south here, he was basically turning himself in, but he wasn't going down without a fight. "Would you mind telling Sheriff Treadwell that Dean Winchester is here to discuss the Styne family? I understand he's been looking for me."

The lady froze, staring at him in shocked surprise. He didn't know if it was his name or the Stynes' that caught her off guard, and frankly he didn't care. As long as she picked up her phone, her fears and concerns were her own problem. After glancing uncertainly at her colleagues, who were both busy attending to other people, she leaned forward and dared to whisper, "You need to leave. Now."

Or, in other words, 'Get the hell out while you still can.' Dean glanced at her name tag—Florence—and smiled appreciatively. "I wish I could, ma'am, but something's gotta be done about those bastards, and I'm not about to back off." Generally a good judge of character, he could read the compassion on her face. "But if it matters to you, and you happen to see one of those FBI agents, put in a good word for me. I can help."

She shook her head. "No one can help." Begrudgingly, she grabbed her receiver and pressed a button. "Ms. Daisy? Dean Winchester's up front. He wants to see the sheriff." She listened for a moment, then said, "Yes ma'am." Hanging up, she indicated the door to the right of the desk. "Meet me over there."

He nodded, bracing himself for the lion's den. It wasn't that he feared the police—and this certainly wasn't his first time around the block—but with the Stynes involved, so many things could go wrong—it was a disaster waiting to happen. When Florence opened the door, granting him access to the back, he took a deep breath and favored her with a wink. "Well… Here goes nothing."

"You must be out of your mind, boy," she replied. They ventured into an open office bullpen where a handful of cops and city employees were either collaborating or socializing. Technically, it was the lunch hour, but Dean got the impression they were on high alert—no doubt triggered by the arrival of the feds. As he followed Florence into their midst, he sensed their eyes watching him suspiciously.

At the far end of the room, a petite brunette in a professional blue dress rose from her workstation. She wore a strand of pearls around her pale neck and smiled at Dean maliciously. "Hello, Mr. Winchester." She stretched out her hand. "Daisy Parson. I hope you realize what an honor this is."

On any other day, Dean might have welcomed the challenge in her eyes, but right now, after looking her up and down, he smelled a rat. "The pleasure's all yours," he said before glancing back at Florence. "Thanks, ma'am." She took the dismissal as a fair warning and promptly retreated to the front. Once she was a safe distance away, Dean focused back on Daisy. "So… Am I headed to the sheriff or the slammer?"

She faked a laugh. "Why, neither, sweetheart. The sheriff's a bit preoccupied at the moment, but you're certainly not under arrest. How 'bout I show you to the conference room? You can wait for him there." She motioned for him to follow, but he just shook his head. No way in hell.

Snatching a pair of scissors from the desk, Dean grabbed her arm and yanked her into his embrace. She squealed, and everyone in the room jumped to attention as he brought the scissors up to her neck—there was no doubt in their minds that he could cause serious damage with the makeshift weapon.

"Don't shoot!" Daisy screamed as the four nearest cops drew their guns.

"Let her go!" one shouted angrily while another growled, "Just take it easy!"

"Everyone, shut up!" Dean bellowed, and thankfully they listened. As valuable as legacies were, it only seemed natural for the Stynes to exploit the police in their search, and Daisy's attitude clearly suggested as much. These guys knew exactly who he was, they knew exactly who wanted him, and they weren't about to risk killing him—not if they had to answer to Monroe. He might go to jail for this, but honestly, if it meant saving Sam, it wouldn't be the end of the world.

"Now I don't want to hurt anyone," he loudly exclaimed, scanning his surroundings. The cops had him boxed in—no going back now. "But y'all make me sick! Answering to the Stynes? What's wrong with you?" To be fair, they were considerably outmatched by the magical family, but that wasn't the point. He was just trying to make a commotion, and sure enough, it worked.

From the corner office, Sheriff Treadwell emerged with a team of six smartly-dressed federal agents—all packing heat. Dean didn't know whether to laugh or grimace. They'd either be his salvation or his downfall, depending on their knee-jerk reactions.

Much to his relief, Daisy appreciated his value. "Graham, it's Dean Winchester! Hold your fire!"

The sheriff stopped short, throwing out an arm to curb the feds, and fortunately they followed his lead—albeit reluctantly. One agent in particular, a clean-cut African-American, shook his head in disgust. For a long breath, no one moved as they all took stock of the tense situation.

Then, the sheriff lowered his gun, speaking softly. "Dean… You know better than this, and believe me, taking it out on Daisy ain't gonna help… Just let her go…"

Straight to the point, then. "Why? So you can serve me up on a silver platter?" Dean's voice shook with unbridled fury. "Screw you." He turned his gaze to the African-American. "You're FBI, right? In town for the Stynes? Well, you can forget about partnering up with these scumbags. They're all in Monroe's pocket, and I don't want to think about how many crimes they've helped cover up—including my brother's abduction."

According to Bobby, it was safe to assume the FBI would maintain a low profile to avoid tipping off their suspects. They would seek the sheriff's cooperation, but under no circumstances would they advertise it lest the Stynes take precautionary measures. Little did they know, as they privately met with Treadwell to discuss their case, the whole department reeked of corruption and word of their presence no doubt reached Monroe the moment they arrived. Dean had to warn them, and they were sharp enough to take his claims seriously. After all, he was remarkably well-informed.

The African-American narrowed his eyes. "You have our attention, Dean. Why don't you let Ms. Parson go so we can talk about this?"

It was a reasonable request, and part of the plan, but at the same time, it left a pit in Dean's stomach. He wasn't trained to trust the feds; he was trained to trust his instincts. Fight or flight. This went against everything he knew about survival, and compelled him to stall. "You realize the second I let her go, they'll have the Stynes all over my ass, don't you? I won't be able to protect myself, much less my little brother."

"Let us do our job, and the Stynes won't be in a position to hurt anyone ever again."

If only it was that easy. Treadwell and his subordinates were practically sweating, they were so flustered by this turn of events. Even if they weren't all loyal to the Stynes, they were definitely intimidated by them, and they were torn between serving their masters and serving the public. Either way, they had to keep up appearances or risk incriminating themselves, which was something, to say the least.

Warily, Dean released his grip on Daisy, but to everyone's surprise, she didn't scramble away from him like an ordinary hostage. Rather, she signaled the cops and agents to wait, shielding Dean from their belligerence, and turned to look up at him in frustration. "You don't know what you're talking about. The Stynes are upstanding citizens, and you should—"

"Shut up." He set the scissors on the desk and nodded at the African-American who immediately brandished a pair of handcuffs. Figures. "What's your name?" Dean asked as the man went to work restraining his wrists.

He was humored with a brusque, "Special Agent Victor Henriksen."

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _The Stynes are less than pleased with John and Dean... Please review!_


	15. Fury

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry this chapter's a little short! I'll post more soon!_

 _Quick recap so we're all on the same page... The Stynes have incredible influence in Shreveport, so most of the local authorities are under their control. The feds, however, are responding to an anonymous tip from Ash. They believe the Stynes are criminals, and are in town to investigate—but they're still clueless about the supernatural. Anyway, I hope I haven't been too confusing, and that you're all still enjoying the fic! Thanks for reading/following/reviewing! Hugs!_

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

When word reached Monroe Styne of a federal investigation into his family's history of fraud, arms dealing, tax evasion and now kidnapping, he took a seat at his writing desk and fumed—not even news of Dean's apprehension could appease him. First the debacle in New Hampshire. Now the FBI? These legacies were living up to their grand heritage, the cunning heroes, and it would inevitably require an extensive amount of time and energy wasted on damage control. Talk about inconvenient.

Secrecy! That's all he asked for. Secrecy guaranteed their success and sheltered them from harm. It was bad enough when they had Men of Letters watching from afar—at least most of them had the decency to mind their own business—but standard suits with badges were basically farmers with pitchforks, and if experience taught him anything, it was not to underestimate farmers with pitchforks.

At least he could count on Graham Treadwell's fealty—the man had proven himself more than once. He could watch over Dean while Monroe addressed some more pressing matters. Like John and Doc Benton—if they weren't with Elizabeth at Cross Bayou Bridge (where Jacob, Roscoe and Mason were waiting to ambush them), and if they weren't with the young man at the police department (where they clearly wanted to direct Monroe's attention), then where were they? What did they have planned? Probably something to do with spreading the Stynes too thin…

A knock at the door to Monroe's study breached his thoughts, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Enter."

The door swung open and Clyde, Monroe's ex-marine head of security, made his way forward. "You asked to see me, sir?" With Jacob and his cousins already in the field, he was officially needed to help pick up the slack.

Monroe nodded with a deep sigh. "Clyde, do you know what it's like playing chess with a hunter?"

"Quite invigorating, I'd imagine." One thing about Clyde—he was ever an optimist, and Monroe smiled as the tension eased out of his shoulders.

"That's one way of putting it." He tapped his fingers on the desk, weighing his options. "Right now, as we speak, half a dozen FBI agents are preparing to raid our house with Dean Winchester's support. I don't have to explain what they'll find when they do—at least four smoking guns. More than enough to bring our family to ruin. So, we could either send our forces to the police department and nip this investigation in the bud, or we can attempt to hide all the evidence. Unfortunately, that would divert our attention away from John Winchester and Doc Benton, who I suspect are hoping to rescue Sam. Now, we can't let that happen."

"No sir."

"Call Paige Fontaine and ask her to pick Cyrus up from school today. He can spend the night over at their house. Then, I want you to make it look like we're scrambling for cover. Give those old men a false sense of security, and present them with every opportunity to break in, but be sure to catch them when they do. Understand?"

"Yes sir… But what about the feds?"

Monroe scoffed, rolling his eyes. "We might as well let them come. I know a powerful brainwashing spell that can sap the will right out of them. I hate using it—magic always comes with a price—and breaking six grown men in a single evening will more than likely incapacitate me for the next week or two. Hardly efficient, especially when we have legacies to sacrifice, but I suppose it can't be helped. Someone has to tell the FBI we're not criminals, and who better than their own agents?"

"Yes sir."

"Better make sure we have some available operating tables. The spell demands physical contact and multiple treatments, so they'll have to be subdued."

"Yes sir."

At this rate, it was going to be a long, exhausting autumn. Eldon, Eli, Roy and Colton… Their lives were a high price to pay, but Monroe had to believe it would all be worth it in the end. As long as Jacob and the rest of his family stuck to their training, they'd be unshakable. And then, when it was all said and done, Monroe could relax and blow off some steam by toying with the latest addition to their household.

"Clyde… whatever happens… don't let me down."

 **SPN**

At first, Elizabeth thought the Winchesters and Thomas were simply making her wait as she stood idly on the southern end of Cross Bayou Bridge. It was an adequate day to be outside—not a cloud in the sky, but nevertheless humid—and to the casual observer, she was just a girl in a violet tea dress, appreciating the allure of an old abandoned historical site. It wasn't difficult to hide her anxiety—she had plenty of practice—but beneath the surface, she feared her cousins would double-cross Thomas the moment he turned up. After all, he had a part in the deaths of their family members. If she could just get him away from John and Dean, if she could just explain the situation, there might still be a chance to salvage this fiasco. But she had to reach him first; the distance between them was agonizing.

Another twenty minutes came and went; still no sign of their quarry. Elizabeth's heart sank when she glimpsed Jacob leading Roscoe and Mason out from the trees—they wouldn't abandon their posts unless something had gone horribly wrong, and judging from the look on Jacob's face, she was the nearest object of his scorn.

Backpedaling, she held her arms up defensively—not that it would do much good if he lashed out. He was more than twice her size! Damn. Out of everyone in their wretched family, he was the one she hated least. "Jacob, I don't understand… What happened?"

"I just got off the phone with father," he told her darkly. "They're not coming! We've been standing out here like fools while the Winchester boy's been stirring up trouble at the police department—and who's to say what his father and your boyfriend are up to! Did you know they called the FBI!? Why didn't you tell us?"

Elizabeth shook her head, trying to process his words. He thought… He thought she was holding out on them… covering for their enemies while they put their plan—whatever it might be—into action. He thought she was betraying them in favor of Thomas… And the sad truth was she couldn't blame him for doubting her. "Jacob, please! I didn't know! I haven't entered a trance since reading Sam's palm yesterday. You remember how weak it made me? I'm still trying to recover from it. I couldn't spy on them even if I wanted to. Honestly!"

She might be the Stynes' best fortune-teller, but they couldn't expect her to foresee everything, could they? That wasn't fair!

Jacob grabbed her shoulders and she flinched at his aggression. "You better not be lying, Lilibet! I've been looking out for you since we were children—I've done everything I can think of to protect you—everything! And it was never good enough! You ran away! You left us! You only came back for that Yankee, and look what it's gotten us. Eldon and Eli are dead! Roy and Colton are dead! Does that mean nothing to you!?"

Tears glistened in her eyes. "How could you even think that?"

He gave her a forceful shake. "How could I not think it? I'm tired of this, Lilibet! Either you're for this family, or you're against it, and I promise, if you decide to betray us, I'm done! I won't lift a finger to prevent your punishment, no matter what it is. Do you hear me?" Not waiting for her response, Jacob pushed her away and glared at Roscoe and Mason. "Come on. Clyde might need our help back home."

As they stalked away, Elizabeth shakily sank to her knees. Jacob… He wasn't just the one she hated least… He was the one she relied on… The one she trusted… The one she cared about… How could she cope with his loathing?

Dean. This was all Dean Winchester's fault. He agreed to rendezvous here, to reunite her with Thomas, and he deceived her. She was practically alone in the world—now more than ever before—and he was rubbing salt into the wound. He was standing between her and her one chance at happiness. She knew better than to kill him outright… but she would make him pay for this treachery. She would make him bleed.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _No one is safe... Please review!_


	16. Loose Cannons

_**Author's Note:**_ _I just want to thank everyone who has followed and reviewed. I'm thrilled you're enjoying my fic, and I hope it continues to satisfy! :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

The Stynes lived in a wealthy neighborhood outside Shreveport where each estate held at least ten acres of land—not enough to suit a plantation, but more than enough to ensure privacy, even with the adjacent country club. It was a prestigious environment; the two roads leading in and out were both gated, but aside from that, no one felt the need for perimeter fences. They all knew Clyde and his crew were on constant patrol, and they had every confidence in such security.

Except, on that fine afternoon, Monroe wanted to clear a path for his prey to lure them into another trap—though it seemed unlikely the Winchesters would fall for it. They were quite adept at evading capture. It was impressive, really, and Clyde looked forward to meeting John. They were fellow marines, and while the former's record wasn't nearly as honorable as the latter's, they would have much in common.

After some thought, he decided against removing the guards from the front and back gatehouses—if they made things too easy, it would warrant suspicion. Rather, he sent word to have the gates temporarily disabled and sealed off. No one in or out unless on foot. It would no doubt upset the neighbors, but they'd get over it—they always did.

Adding to the effect, he staged both entrances with trucks apparently eager to retreat—their beds were covered and their drivers were frustrated by the delay. They routinely honked their horns and yelled obscenities whenever the guards urged them to turn around and come back later. They even made empty threats to ram their way through, which the guards openly ridiculed.

Theoretically, one might drive over the grass to get around the gates, making the obstruction less than impenetrable—Clyde couldn't see it slowing down Jacob or the FBI—but really, it was just for show. As long as it convinced their hunter-friend that the Stynes were in a crisis, encouraging him to make his advance, nothing else mattered.

Satisfied with his little ruse, Clyde returned to the big house with several of his men. It was a long drive up to the door; by foot, it might take a couple hours to cross the distance, especially when factoring in the need for stealth. Unless, of course, their plan was to charge forward, guns blazing, on a stolen golf cart from the country club… as it seemed to be. Clyde nearly laughed at the absurd sight… until he recognized the gravity of the situation.

Doc Benton was sitting behind the wheel, his mangled face contorted in pure hatred… John Winchester was slouched over in the passenger's seat, his wrists bound in front of him… and if that wasn't bad enough, he was covered in blood… Damn…

"ELIZABETH!" Slamming to a halt, Doc Benton shoved John to the ground—he landed heavily on his side, too weak to break his fall. "I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! WHERE IS SHE?" The alchemist jumped out of the vehicle, waving a revolver, as Clyde and his team took up defensive positions by the porch. They swiftly aimed their Berettas, but held their fire as Doc Benton hauled his hostage up to his knees.

"Don't even think about it!" Clyde shouted when the freak's gun flew to John's temple. That was one of their precious legacies!

"I'LL KILL HIM!" Doc Benton looked crazy enough to carry out his threat. "IF YOU DON'T HAND OVER MY BELOVED THIS INSTANT, I'LL BLOW HIS BRAINS OUT!"

"Just hold on!" Clyde had to think. How did this happen? He thought the two of them were working together… Then again, John was responsible for mutilating Doc Benton fourteen years ago. Perhaps the time had finally come for vengeance. If the hunter trusted the alchemist to fight alongside him, and dropped his guard, he'd be easy to subdue. Idiot. Clyde shook his head. "She's not here, doctor. I swear. She was supposed to meet the three of you in Shreveport over an hour ago. She's still downtown."

Doc Benton hesitated, his head lilting to the side. Meanwhile, John remained passively on his knees, bloody and torpid. Clyde couldn't see where he was injured, but he wasn't putting up much of a fight, and given his reputation, that did not bode well.

"I don't have any quarrel with you," he hoped to assure the assailant. "And we're not the ones keeping you from Elizabeth. In fact, she made a deal with our patriarch to leave y'all alone in exchange for the legacies… So if you surrender your hostage to us, right now, we won't retaliate. You have my word."

They offered him a minute to weigh his options—which gave Clyde time to consider his next move. Doc Benton was immortal, making their weapons useless. At most, they might be able to knock him back a few feet, but he'd be quick to recover, and with the legacy's life at stake, it would be risky. If anything else happened to John Winchester, Monroe would be furious, and Clyde would suffer for it.

"I'll let him go," Doc Benton finally agreed, lowering his voice. "But first… as an act of good faith, I want y'all to drop your guns. Prove to me I'm welcome here."

Clyde took a deep, reluctant breath, but then John buckled, and his captor had to tighten his hold to keep him erect. If they didn't resolve this soon, he would lose too much blood… So really, what other choice did they have?

"All right." Clyde signaled his men to cooperate. Moving slowly, they bent down one by one and placed their Berettas on the ground. Raising their hands, they watched carefully for signs of weakness, ready to attack at a moment's notice. "You see? We're friends… but you must relinquish the prisoner. He needs medical attention."

"Does he?" Feigning surprise, Doc Benton glanced over his hostage in concern. "Oh! I'm sorry. I forgot to mention… that's not his blood."

Before anyone could react, the ropes fell from John's wrists and he reached inside his jacket, withdrawing a beautiful M1911. In the blink of an eye, he opened fire, shooting each of the Stynes squarely in their heads.

 **SPN**

It was a relief to hear he wouldn't be arrested. Apparently, his brother's abduction earned him sympathy points with the FBI, and if such mitigating circumstances weren't enough, Daisy and Sheriff Treadwell were refusing to press charges. That being said, they weren't just going to release him, and since cops could detain people for a shocking length of time, Dean found himself stuck in a small interrogation room.

It killed him that he wasn't out on the front line, backing up his father. What if they needed his help? What if Doc Benton turned on them? What if Sammy had been hurt? The endless possibilities were messing with his mind, but orders were orders, and John wanted him here. As Dean stared across the table at Special Agent Victor Henriksen, who sat calmly reading his file, he fought the urge to break something.

Eventually, the fed looked up and met his gaze. "Mind explaining your connection to the Stynes? Why are they so interested in your family?"

That was easy enough to answer—some lies just came naturally. "It's my dad," Dean said glumly. "He was a Corporal in the Corps… Echo-2-1. He, um… made some contacts and acquired some skills in Vietnam that I guess the Stynes want to capitalize on. I don't know the details—my dad's a tight-lipped kind of guy, even around me. Especially around me. Needless to say, he's not cooperating, so the Stynes thought they'd use some leverage and picked Sam up from Stanford. Of course, they can't kill him till they get what they want, so now they're hoping to grab me, cause then one of us becomes expendable. Dad'll be forced to do whatever they say."

He peered over at his reflection in the two-way mirror. If he had to bet, Treadwell was on the other side with Special Agent Calvin Reidy and his four colleagues, denying everything. Who would the FBI believe? Dean's story made sense, but then again, he wasn't the most credible man in the world. Not for the first time, he wished he could trade places with Sam—the kid had an excellent record and a knack for gaining people's trust. Dean would gladly endure the Stynes' brutality if it meant Sam could be here, safe and sound with the FBI eating out of his hand.

It wasn't fair.

Henriksen studied him closely, pondering his words. "Okay… Suppose you're telling the truth. Why do you think Treadwell's involved? Cause I have to say, Dean, that's a serious accusation."

And much more difficult to defend.

Dean opened his mouth, preparing to answer, but was unexpectedly cut off by a wild clamor outside the room. It sounded like a whirlwind, followed by loud shouts and gunfire. What the hell?

"Not again." Henriksen sprang to his feet, but the door burst open before he reached it, and he stopped short in surprise. Heart racing, Dean leaned over to see around him—a petite blonde in a casual violet dress stood in the entry, bearing a pistol in her trembling hands. Elizabeth Lavenza Styne. And just like that, his blood ran cold.

"Hello, Dean." Her delicate voice belied the animosity in her tear-stained eyes. She was pissed, and he knew better than to think his 'value' would protect him now. They left her high and dry at that bridge; they robbed her of a romantic reunion with her boyfriend; she wasn't about to forgive him, whether or not he was an 'endangered species.' Damn… This could get very nasty, very quickly.

"What's going on?" Henriksen demanded, only to be thrown across the room with the mere tilt of her head. He crashed into the mirror, shattering it, and crumbled to the floor with glass shards pouring over him. After that, he didn't move.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean recoiled in astonishment. Telekinesis? She knew freaking telekinesis!?

"I was never one to play by the rules," she told him ruefully. "I mean, trying gets me nowhere, so why bother?" Dean slowly stood up, backing away as she approached—not that he had anywhere to go. "I thought I could finally pick up the pieces and put my life back together. You were my ticket. For awhile there, I actually thought… But look at me now." She laughed erratically. "I can't come back from this. So mark my words, hot shot, when I'm done with you, you're gonna wish you never laid eyes on me."

"I made that wish days ago, you ugly whore." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Flushing furiously, she leveled her gun and squeezed the trigger.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Will John be able to rescue Sam? And what about Dean? Please review!_


	17. The Hunt

_**Author's Note:** I realize my portrayal of the Styne estate doesn't quite match the show's, but it's set eleven years earlier, so maybe things were arranged differently back then. I don't know. Details! I'm not sure it matters, and as long as you're all happy, I'm happy. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

"It's ironic… We work so well together," Doc Benton teased as they climbed the porch steps up to the mansion's main entrance. John grunted, wiping blood from his face. The monster wasn't wrong, but he sure as hell wouldn't acknowledge it. At the end of the day, they were still enemies—something they best not forget.

Finding the door unlocked, they crept inside a magnificent foyer with a checkerboard marble floor and a grand staircase spiraling around a radiant chandelier. To their left, a drawing room beckoned with a plush red carpet and fancy fireplace. After that came the dining room with its formal mahogany table. In the midst of it all, whimsical jazz music filled their ears with southern charm. When they were done here, John highly considered burning the place to the ground.

"Should we split up?" Benton asked as they gained their bearings. "Divide and conquer?"

"No." John couldn't risk letting the alchemist find Sam first. "We stick together."

"Ah, yes." He nodded at the hunter's wisdom and took point, unconcerned with running into danger—immortality had its perks. Slowly but surely, they navigated each room on the first floor. It was all very impressive, and John thought back to his conversation with Bela two days ago.

 _"They're competitors… I hate to say it, but their retrieval specialists put me to shame. They're not going to pay for a service they don't require…"_

How much would a single ornament from the mantle be worth? What about a single book? Or the 'decorative' sword displayed proudly on the wall? He was exploring a potential treasure trove, but none of it mattered, because none of it meant a dime compared to his children.

This house… Around each corner, they faced increasingly extravagant amenities. The upgrades in the kitchen alone were fit for royalty. Was that a walk-in freezer? John opened the stainless steel door, checking the inside for bodies, but thankfully found nothing unusual. It would seem, given all this storage space, the Stynes enjoyed hosting large dinner parties. In that case, they'd take care to keep anything remotely suspicious out of the way of their guests. Good. That might help narrow things down.

"Where do you suppose the servants are?" Benton asked, fingering a discarded chef's knife. He made a fair point—there wasn't a soul in sight, and surely the background music wasn't for the guards' benefit. John wondered uneasily if Sam could hear it from wherever they were stashing him… Hopefully not, or he would never listen to jazz the same way again.

They continued their search, cautious and alert for the slightest hint of trouble. When they finally came across a fastened door with a bold 'Do Not Disturb' sign, they eyed each other knowingly. John proceeded to kick it down, revealing an industrial staircase that led deep into a finished basement.

Bingo. In this part of the country, basements were scarce—the terrain made them too impractical. Only a resourceful and privileged idiot would go through the trouble of building and maintaining one… But why bother in a house this size unless they had a particular need? Whatever the Stynes might be using it for, John guessed it wasn't good.

They descended silently, Benton first. At the bottom of the stairs, they passed through gray swinging impact doors and discovered a giant laboratory complete with operating tables and surgical equipment. Fortunately, there was a noticeable lack of test subjects… but the room was lined with green alcoves, each containing shelves of preserved organs, tissues and bizarre appendages… With the overwhelming stench of sanitation, not to mention the pervasive jazz music streaming from an intercom, it was obvious they had stumbled into a mad scientist's secret lair.

Benton whistled in admiration. "Classy, ain't it?"

John was disgusted, and he glared at his cohort in contempt. "I think evil's a more accurate description." He plowed ahead, desperate for his son. "Sammy? Are you in here?"

No response.

Turning in a big circle, he observed every inch of the lab with an uncertain frown. The kid _had_ to be nearby! Where else would the bastards put him? Of course it was a mansion, but still, there were only so many places to hide. Where else could he be? A bedroom? An… attic?

"Why, Mr. Winchester!"

John and Benton both whipped back towards the entrance where they had been followed by a stately southern gentleman. He wore a pleasant smile on his slender face while clutching a merciless dart gun in his arms. Instinctively, John dove behind the table to his left, but didn't quite make it. A tranquilizer struck his hip, easily penetrating his jeans, and the effects were instantaneous… not normal… damn magic…

He hit the floor hard, muscles caving in… His pistol skated out of reach… Groaning, he tried to concentrate, to focus on the hunt, but it no longer mattered… He was in a fog, and his world was spinning…

"Sam!"

From somewhere miles away… but right beside him… he sensed two monsters celebrating his defeat.

"How nice of you to join us… Now don't you worry about Sammy, sir… You'll see him again real soon…"

 **SPN**

The bullet grazed Dean's shoulder—either Elizabeth was a terrible shot, or she was taking her time. Regardless, it hurt like hell, and he had to muster all his discipline to hold back an angry howl. Pressed up against the far wall, with no help in sight, he glared at her as defiantly as he could. "I don't know what you're mad at me for… You're the one who dragged us into this… You've got no one to blame but yourself."

She paused, staring at him in a sudden panic—the weapon's blast must have snapped her out of her rampage. Flustered, she dropped it on the floor—Dean winced, fully expecting an accidental discharge that luckily didn't come. "Oh God… I'm going to be in so much trouble…"

"Yeah, tell me about it…" His gaze flashed from her to the gun. What were the odds he could retrieve it before she turned her psychic mojo on him? Telekinesis? Honestly, the supernatural should come with warning labels! "Look… Elizabeth… My dad and I… We're just trying to get Sam back… And your boyfriend—Thomas—he's working with us, remember? The only reason we stood you up at that bridge was to keep you out of harm's way during the rescue mission."

Sometimes he wondered where his B.S. came from, but right now, he didn't care. As long as it did the trick.

"Your family's never going to accept him," he added, a little too harshly. "In their minds, he'll always be beneath you—a poor, ugly northerner, better off dead. You have to realize that. He does. And take it from me, at the end of the day, Thomas will make you a happier woman than they ever will. After all, he's been waiting faithfully to see you again for, what? Two hundred years? That's dedication! That's what you want! Not a family full of murdering dicks."

She was shaking her head, clearly in denial, but unable to protest. With nowhere left to turn, she crumbled onto the chair where Henriksen was sitting earlier and fiddled with her ring. Breathing deeply, she fixed her eyes on the rose quartz crystal and entered a deep, mystical trance—Dean recognized it from when she read his palm.

Seizing the opportunity, he barreled forward, scooping up the pistol. He could shoot her right now and be done with it, but then again, they were in the middle of a police department, and murdering a beautiful, young heiress might not be his smartest move. Besides… a part of Dean pitied her… She might be a monster, but at the same time, she was also a lonely, tormented soul who knew nothing but abuse. Whoever said it paid to be evil?

Cursing, Dean glanced over at the fed. Still unconscious.

Screw it. There wasn't time for this insanity. He had to get out of here. His dad could use his help, and he was anxious to find his brother.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Will John survive the Stynes' ritual? Or will he be sacrificed? Please review!_


	18. Styne Hospitality

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm so proud of the next two chapters! They were extremely hard to write, but extremely satisfying. I hope you love them as much as I do!_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

Back in the Stynes' attic, Sam languished miserably. Every now and then, he tried to move his left arm—which Rhett unleashed to protect the white swathe bandaging his wrist—but it remained completely paralyzed. Somehow, they managed to use some kind of numbing agent to incapacitate the one limb for the tattoo artist, allowing Sam to watch and resist without actually messing up the ink—which naturally amused his captors.

The damn thing burned and itched and repulsed him. According to Monroe, he was now officially a Styne, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. They let him vomit in the bathroom, but after that, they returned him upstairs and warned him to behave himself—as if he had a choice. Then, they replaced his gag and went about their morning.

At some point later in the day, despite the incessant jazz music, he heard shouts and gunfire coming from outside. It roused his spirits and spurred him to struggle against the chain shackling his other wrist. Unfortunately, it didn't break, and after a few minutes, he gave up. It seemed the disruption was hastily dealt with, and he could only hope it wasn't caused by John or Dean. But then again, who was he kidding?

All too soon, Rhett and Jacob made their way back up the stairs, talking and laughing maliciously. As they entered the attic with additional restraints, Sam shied away, wishing to be left alone. "Wakey, wakey, little brother!" He glowered at them, but they didn't seem to notice.

"How we doing?" Jacob asked, sitting next to him and snatching his crippled arm. "Any movement yet?" He lifted it up, gently maneuvering it back-and-forth to determine how much control Sam had—which was none. "Don't worry. It's not permanent." Satisfied, Jacob went on to remove the bandage from Sam's wrist, exposing his new tattoo. His skin was red and raw, but the Styne's black crest was bright and crisp. "That, however... Did they tell you how we use soot from demon smoke in our ink recipe? That's rare stuff. Powerful stuff. And it ain't coming off." He smiled while Sam averted his eyes.

"Aww… Keep your chin up, Sammy. We have a surprise for you." Rhett bent down to wrap a chain around Sam's waist. Once he secured it, he released the manacle on Sam's right wrist and replaced it with a cuff attached to the chain. It fastened his good arm to his side without upsetting his bad one, which might inflame the tattoo. Meanwhile, Jacob adjusted his gag to make sure it was snug before proceeding to his legs. He untied the ropes only to fetter Sam's ankles—the chain gave him enough slack so he could walk, but kicking would be out of the question.

Together, Rhett and Jacob hauled Sam up and steered him out of the attic. He dragged his feet, not wanting to cooperate, but was too fatigued to provoke much frustration. They took the stairs cautiously, apparently in no rush, and eventually reached the basement—the secret laboratory where they tattooed his wrist earlier that morning.

This time, Monroe, Roscoe and Mason were waiting around an operating table along with a strange zombie-like creature… Doc Benton…? As Rhett and Jacob jostled Sam forward, they all glanced at him smugly—and his gaze immediately drifted to the prisoner strapped to the table. His dad… covered in blood…

Sam nearly choked and tried wrenching free, but Rhett and Jacob were ready and quickly tightened their grips. This couldn't be happening! Not to his dad. John was too skilled to be subdued. He'd never be taken like this! Sam shouted desperately, but the gag smothered him, and the more he squirmed, the more Jacob cooed in his ear.

"Just try to relax… I know it's hard right now, but it'll be over in a couple hours… We'll even give you a day to grieve… It'll be just fine, and things will return to normal before you know it… I promise…" He rubbed Sam's back playfully while Monroe waved smelling salts under John's nose.

There was so much blood… smeared over his face… soaking his shirt… How was he even still breathing?

The last night they saw each other, they argued so heatedly it almost came to blows. John's size would always intimidate Sam, but not enough to stamp out his rebellion, and they traded words that would stay with him forever.

 _"You know, most parents are proud when their children earn full rides… if you weren't such a SELFISH, OBSESSED BASTARD—!"_

 _"Oh, I'm the selfish one? Your brother and I need you, boy. That's the whole point. We're family. We stick by each other. So why don't you just GROW UP and stop acting like a SPOILED, SNOT-NOSED—!"_

 _"Grow up? What the hell do you think grown ups do? They LEAVE! You can't have it both ways, dad… I've made up my mind, and I want out…"_

 _"Tough! You're not going ANYWHERE!"_

 _"TRY AND STOP ME!"_

 _"YOU WALK OUT THAT DOOR, DON'T YOU EVER COME BACK!"_

How could such a strong, stubborn, unyielding man be overtaken like this? It filled Sam with dread and tears brimmed in his eyes.

"Don't worry, kid," Doc Benton said, taking pity on him as John coughed and jerked back to consciousness. "That's not your daddy's blood. We only splashed it on him to fool the guards. He's in perfect shape."

Relief flooded Sam's body and he sagged against Rhett and Jacob. Of course, the Stynes wanted legacies for their ritual—so if John really was hemorrhaging right now, they wouldn't be so damn pleased with themselves.

"Sammy?" When the hunter caught sight of his son, his expression darkened. He pulled on the leather straps holding him down and scowled impatiently. "This your idea of southern hospitality? It's nice."

"Well, the pleasure's all mine," Monroe quipped, leaning over him. "I trust you're comfortable, sir. Cause you're never gonna make it off this table." They examined each other gravely, and if looks could kill… "How many of my relatives have you slaughtered in the last forty-eight hours? Do you keep track of your body count?"

A sly smirk crossed John's bloody face. "Well, I can't take all the credit. Doc Benton over there really helped." He nodded at the monster who returned Monroe's gaze with a noncommittal shrug. Anyone could see they despised each other, but Sam remembered the deal Monroe made with Elizabeth… In return for discovering the legacies, she wanted her 'happily ever after' with the alchemist… Were they actually going to honor that agreement? Even after all this trouble?

Monroe sighed. "Don't sell yourself short, Mr. Winchester. You've been very clever and very formidable. Calling the FBI? Now was that really necessary?"

"No, but I heard from a reliable source you Stynes like your privacy, and it seemed like a decent prank."

Doc Benton chuckled, which earned him five angry glares. He swiftly checked himself, but a twinkle remained in the eyes he stole from Eldon.

Monroe shook his head and ambled over to a shelving unit where he grasped a large crystal decanter—it was tapered, ornate and empty. As he made his way back, he paused next to Sam, Rhett and Jacob. He regarded the captive briefly, reaching out to stroke his face—clearly for John's benefit. The hunter saw Sam flinch and growled.

"Get the hell away from him."

"Now, Mr. Winchester, you're in no position to be making demands." Monroe's hand slipped behind Sam's head and pressed down; he bucked, but with Rhett and Jacob hampering him, he couldn't stop the old man from kissing his forehead. It was humiliating, and Sam flushed while John wrestled with his restraints.

"Besides," Monroe said as he returned to the operating table. "Aren't fathers supposed to show their boys affection?" John froze, blindsided by the outrageous remark. "As it turns out, we're not the only ones with a vested interest in young Sam here, and you'll be pleased to know he's worth more to us alive than dead. So, instead of sacrificing him, we're gonna adopt him. I mean, it's only fair, right? You've been killing us; we'll be killing you… The survivors are gonna need compensation."

To help drive the point home, Jacob displayed Sam's left arm, making sure John had a clear view of the ink on his wrist. Sam clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see his dad's reaction, and for a long, drawn-out moment, no one moved. Obviously, the tattoo didn't change anything… He was still a Winchester… But then again, branding him was only their first step… What other mind games did they have in store?

"You think you're gonna survive this?" John snorted. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Styne, even if you kill me, this war isn't over. I have friends—friends who love Sam more than life itself. They know all about you, and they're already working on contingency plans. Your days are numbered."

"Mmm… Technically, no." Monroe flaunted the crystal decanter and removed the lid. "We're about to extract your soul, Mr. Winchester, which we will then use in a complicated ritual where we will also dismember what's left of your body. It's quite grisly, to be frank, and I'm sure it'll give Sam nightmares, but it's all for the sake of our reincarnation, ensuring that our days are not, as you say, numbered."

He released the decanter, but instead of crashing to the floor, it levitated upwards, floating directly above John's chest.

Sam moaned and tried to shake off Rhett and Jacob, but they were too strong.

"Settle down, Sammy."

"Once we finish with you," Monroe went on, "we'll start fresh with Dean and fend off the FBI. I doubt they'll be hard to manage. As for your friends… Well, maybe I'll take Sam on an extended vacation back to Europe while Jacob and the boys go hunting. What do you say to that?"

John licked the blood off his lips and met his son's gaze. Sam shook his head, terrified, which prompted his dad to smile encouragingly. "Don't be afraid… Bobby found Jessica. She's safe. He'll find you next, and it's all gonna be okay. I promise."

How? How the hell was it going to be okay? As much as it relieved Sam to hear about Jessica, his dad spoke like he was going to die, and if he died… It was unthinkable. They spent most of their time yelling at each other, bitter and resentful, but underneath it all, it wasn't hatred that defined their relationship… It was love wrapped up in crazy, overwhelming fear… And it just couldn't end like this…

Having said his piece, Monroe began chanting in an unfamiliar language… It wasn't Latin, but it sure sounded ancient and sinister… John took a deep breath, steeling himself for an onslaught, and looked up at the floating decanter without a trace of apprehension. Meanwhile, Sam fought like a rabid animal—not that it accomplished anything. Between Rhett and Jacob, he was helpless.

Short and concise, the chant only took a minute to initiate the extraction. Monroe fell silent and everyone in the lab watched with bated breath for some kind of magical frenzy… Except nothing happened… Jacob snarled while Sam glanced from the decanter to his dad, not sure whether to be pleased or confused. John, however… His focus shifted somewhere else…

Without warning, Doc Benton produced a chef's knife from under his jacket and viciously plunged it into Mason's back. "How many times do I have to say it?" he barked, yanking the knife free and shoving Mason's body at Monroe—the impact knocked them to the floor. "That ain't the hunter's blood!" He jumped to John's side and slashed the leather strap on his wrist. "It's mine!"

"Rhett!" Jacob pulled Sam away from the attack while his taller relative charged at the alchemist. Relinquishing the knife to John, Benton turned to greet his new assailant with a wide grin. They crashed into each other, grappling blindly.

"Jacob!" Monroe clumsily regained his footing and glanced from John—who was single-handedly brandishing the knife against Roscoe—over to his son. "Get the boy out of here!"

Jacob cursed under his breath, but didn't question the command. As Monroe hastened to block the hunter's escape, he spun Sam around and shoved him to the door. This time, when Sam dragged his feet, Jacob countered by kneeing him in the gut. The pain was excruciating, knocking the wind out of him, and Sam doubled over with a muffled cry as Jacob whispered, "You're not getting away, little brother."

The next thing he knew, they were climbing up the stairs, and nothing he did seemed to slow them down.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _The fight for Sam begins… Please review!_


	19. Hand-to-Hand

_**Author's Note:**_ _If you're wondering about Doc Benton's blood... don't worry. It will all be explained. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

Dean drove like a lunatic, asking more from the Impala than he ever had before—and she did not disappoint. He hurtled out of the city as quickly as possible, recklessly dressing his shoulder while running red lights and making illegal passes—after all, he was already in trouble with the law. Why follow it now?

The Shreveport police department was in an uproar when he fled his interrogation room. Sheriff Treadwell, Daisy Parson, and their fellow conspirators were all busy trying to salvage the situation while the feds—Calvin Reidy and his team—came to grips with Elizabeth's unusual abilities. It was shaping into one massive conflict, and Dean wasn't about to stick around and watch. Instead, he plowed through the chaos, fighting anyone who got in his way.

It took forever to navigate through the city, but his training kept him focused and surprisingly calm, considering the rage storming within him. For the past two days, he had been hamstrung with debilitating concern and agitation, but now, at long last, he reached the limit where he could either collapse under the pressure or let his fury take the helm. He didn't want to think about what John would say—his orders were to assist the FBI and, if things grew dicey, to retreat and catch up with Bobby. Well… to hell with that.

What made John think Dean could live with himself if the Stynes destroyed their family while he was on the sidelines, playing it safe? No. That simply wasn't going to happen.

Consequently, he sped towards the preeminent community where, according to Bobby's contact, the Stynes made their home. He swerved around a sealed gate, cutting over the grass to avoid a handful of guards and a minor traffic jam. From there, he scrambled to identify the right house—the driveways were long and poorly marked, no doubt for the sake of privacy.

His shoulder twinged from where the bullet grazed him. It wasn't a severe injury, and the makeshift bandage seemed to stop the bleeding—Dean had been through worse—but he still grumbled about Elizabeth's thoughtless hysteria. Crazy bitch. True, he never would have made it past Henriksen without her, but it definitely put him at a disadvantage, and that was risky. Another reason to follow orders…

No. He couldn't start second-guessing himself now. He had to see this through.

There! Dean slammed his foot to the floor, flying the rest of the way up the pavement towards an imposing white house where some broad-shouldered asshole was currently manhandling his brother down some porch steps.

"SAM!"

Even from a distance, Dean could make out both the gag and the chains restricting his brother's movements—all but his left arm, which dangled limply at his side. Was he hurt? Where was their dad? The old man must have been there, somewhere, if the multiple corpses covering the ground were any indication…

In one fluid motion, Dean parked the Impala and sprang outside, aiming the pistol. Unfortunately, the Styne had ample time to prepare, and he welcomed the hunter by pressing close to his captive and brushing the edge of a knife against his throat. It should have been easy for Sam to dislodge him—even with the restraints—but for some reason, he balked, sweating and shaking feverishly. Seeing him in such a condition—especially for the first time in two years—made Dean's blood boil, and he shuddered to imagine what the kid had been through these past few days.

"You need him alive," he pointed out, stalking towards them angrily.

The Styne scoffed. "Not as much as I need myself alive. Stand down."

Dean hesitated, recognizing his voice from their phone call on Saturday. He must be Jacob, Eldon's brother. If only he had a clear shot, he would take it with pleasure. "What's the rush, Mr. Styne? You're not running from my dad, are you? Freaking coward."

Jacob wasn't amused, and he expressed his irritation by nicking Sam's neck. Dean bristled at his brother's whimper. _Come on, Sammy… Hold it together…_

"I'm not gonna say it again," Jacob threatened vehemently. "Drop the gun, boy!"

Damn it… Dean fumed, but what else could he do with Sam in the way? "All right!" Maybe if he stalled them, John would have time to render aid. "Just take it easy!" He submissively held up his hands—which made Sam frantic—before setting the gun on the ground and kicking it to the side. Jacob nodded in approval. "Fair warning," Dean told him. "If you don't deal with me right now, I'm gonna make your life a living hell. You can deny it all you want, but I'm betting it hurt to lose Eldon, and trust me when I say I'm just getting started."

Jacob managed a cruel laugh, even as he circled around Dean with Sam in tow. "Oh, you don't frighten me, boy… You're one of the good guys… You're not capable of the same atrocities that I commit on any given afternoon… Go ahead and do your worst. It'll be a joke compared to the punishment I have planned for dear little Sammy."

Dean met his brother's gaze, silently urging him to resist. They could still make it out of here—if they worked together. Back in the day, they spent hours role playing all kinds of scenarios, training for any given crisis—including this one—and Sam had remarkable muscle memory. He could figure this out—he just had to snap out of his distress. He _had_ to. Otherwise… it would mean that Dean failed in every sense to protect him… and he would never forgive himself.

"If I were you," Jacob continued, homing in on the Impala, which did not improve Dean's mood, "I'd go check on your daddy." He nodded toward the house. "He doesn't have much time left. You're fixing to be an orphan."

Dean caught his breath, but refused to let the prospect distract him. Right now, his top priority was Sam—always Sam—and it was to his considerable relief when the kid finally made use of his long legs to topple the son of a bitch—a task made somewhat easier by the chain fettering his ankles. They became entangled, and as they teetered, Jacob took care to fling the knife away before it caused unnecessary damage—apparently he was still mindful of Sam's safety. Thank God for small favors.

The two landed in a rough heap, and Dean was on them in half a second. With one hand, he helped extricate Sam from his captor—propelling him out of harm's way—and with the other, he punched Jacob in the face. Satisfaction coursed through his veins, and he eagerly went for another strike, but Jacob was no ordinary opponent. He blocked the attack even as he swept his legs around to unbalance Dean. They rolled, and a heartbeat later, they were back on their feet.

Where did Sam end up? The rivals both spared him a glance—he was propped against the Impala, panting heavily through his thick gag—and then they scowled at each other.

"Careful, Dean," Jacob advised, noting his injured shoulder. "Baby brother's been through a lot this weekend. I doubt he wants to watch me break your arms."

"Well then it's a good thing he won't have to." Adrenaline pumping, Dean launched himself at Jacob, sparking an intense round of close combat. They traded blows with fierce precision, Jacob relying on his power, and Dean on his agility. It was hardly an even match—speed was all Dean had going for him, and that wouldn't last long. He tried drawing Jacob away from Sam, but the bastard maintained his position, refusing to be led.

"I'm impressed," he drawled, attuning himself to Dean's tactics. "I can see how you got the drop on Eldon. But it's not gonna happen with me." He managed to grab Dean's neck while knocking him flat on his back. He pinned him down, and Dean felt a momentary rush of panic as he faced defeat.

But then Sam came out of nowhere, careening into Jacob. They spun over the grass, giving Dean time to collect himself. Obviously, it was a bad move on Sam's part—Jacob quickly mounted him and viciously pressed his face into the ground.

"I think someone needs to practice his technique. Don't worry, kiddo. We'll get around to that soon enough."

Dean's gaze fell to the nearest weapon—his pistol. He made a break for it, but Jacob noticed and cut him off, kicking him in the leg. Dean collapsed, gasping at the pain while instinctively rolling out of Jacob's reach. Damn, this wasn't going like he planned…

Instead of closing in to finish the job, Jacob sauntered over to the gun and casually disengaged the magazine. Well, at least Dean wasn't going to get shot again… That was always a plus… He climbed to his feet and braced himself for a second round, which made Jacob raise an eyebrow.

"Why put yourself through all this, boy? You sure it's worth the trouble?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's better than getting sacrificed, I guess."

Jacob smirked. "You might as well give it up; you're going to get sacrificed either way. Just like your daddy…" He paused, casting Sam a look that, for some reason, made Dean's skin crawl. "But not your brother. He gets to live. We've decided to keep him as a souvenir for all the grief your family's caused."

What the hell? At first, Dean thought he misheard the son of a bitch, but then again, it took more than a few death threats to crack Sammy's composure, and the kid was dangerously off his game… No wonder… Something in Dean's subconscious began to shift… Something wild and primordial… Something ravenous…

Without another word, they dove back into their altercation. Dean mustered all his strength and made full use of his sharpest joints—primarily his elbows—hoping to score a hit that might daze his enemy. Of course that was easier said than done—Jacob had expert skills and could deflect his strikes as naturally as breathing. They kept pace with each other, engrossed in a violent, aggressive dance. Any misgivings Dean might have had about his own vulnerability now fled his mind—his only thought was to kill.

Jacob started laughing at Dean's bombardment, evidently enjoying himself. He was a cocky bastard—not without reason—which only added fuel to Dean's fire. When the opportunity finally came, he planted the heel of his palm straight up Jacob's nose with a savage roar. That stopped him in his tracks, blood gushing everywhere. Dean followed through by swiping his legs out from under him, and then by stomping his skull—twice for good measure.

Wiping his mouth, he waited to see if Jacob would recover… and, sure enough, the man clambered groggily to his hands and knees… freaking Terminator. In the distance, sirens began to wail—maybe the FBI, maybe Sheriff Treadwell—but Dean ignored them as he retrieved the fallen knife. Time to end this.

Sam gave a muffled cry when Jacob hurled himself after the hunter. Dean whipped around, lashing out with the blade. Jacob dodged, countering with a jab to his injured shoulder. Dean nearly blacked out, but sheer determination kept him fighting. He wasn't going to let some dick terrorize his little brother!

But it was getting hard to focus… hard to breathe… Dean found himself operating less deliberately and more intuitively. His world diminished until there was nothing left but Jacob Styne… Blue eyes met green… They were both filled with animosity…

Dean aimed for Jacob's throat…

Jacob snared Dean's wrist…

They grappled against each other…

The knife drifted between them…

They lost their balance…

Hit the ground…

Dean on top…

He pressed down on Jacob with all his weight…

The knife hovered towards his neck…

Cars were rocketing up the driveway…

Men were shouting…

Dean felt inexorable urgency…

Not yet…

Jacob sneered, still clamping Dean's wrist, holding the knife at bay…

Unyielding scumbag…

Damn it…!

Several hands seized his clothes—then his arms—and yanked him away from his opponent…

"That's enough, Dean!"

"NO!"

He cursed at the unwelcome interference, twisting against his new contesters, but they quickly overpowered him, confiscating the knife…

"LET ME GO!"

"Dean, it's okay! We'll take it from here!"

The fed… Henriksen's partner… Calvin Reidy… He was standing next to Dean, trying to calm him down. This couldn't be happening! He was so close! It wasn't fair!

Desperation engulfed him…

Meanwhile, Reidy's team and a handful of cops had Jacob surrounded, their guns trained on his supine body. He raised his hands in surrender, much to Dean's chagrin. They wouldn't kill him in cold blood… which meant this wasn't over…

"SON OF A BITCH!"

As he watched, the feds guided Jacob onto his stomach. He humored them, and as they cuffed his wrists, he glanced at Sam. Dean followed his gaze, only to see Sheriff Treadwell sitting with the kid, speaking softly while untying the gag. Crap, crap, crap!

Treadwell must have sensed Jacob staring, and he turned his head. They made eye contact, and the next thing Dean knew, Treadwell was nodding his assent.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY BROTHER!" Dean would have moved heaven and earth to escape his guards, but his body finally wore out. It felt like his shoulder had been bludgeoned, his head throbbed, and the rest of him ached. He thought he might be sick. "I SWEAR TO GOD, I'LL KILL YOU!"

Considering how he withstood Jacob's brutality, Dean wasn't surprised to see Treadwell blanch at the threat. It would have been more satisfying if it weren't for the other officers. They were grumbling something about reckless endangerment, and before long they had Dean's wrists cuffed just like Jacob's.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was weak and wary. As far as rescues went, this had to be the least impressive—possibly a failure. The cops were urging Dean to relax, hauling him into the back seat of a police cruiser. He might not be a criminal, but he was nevertheless jeopardizing their mission, and that made him a nuisance. They had to secure him somewhere before he crossed a line.

Already, their troops were infiltrating the mansion. Where did they all come from? How many were reliable? Did they realize they were walking into a minefield? If they happened upon his dad—or Doc Benton, for that matter—how would they react?

Dean pushed those questions aside, his attention returning to his brother. "SAM!" When it came to the kid's safety, nothing else mattered, and with Sheriff Treadwell still whispering in his ear, Dean's frustration reached an all new level. Even when another officer arrived with a bolt cutter, helping snap off Sammy's restraints, Dean was not appeased. They were only trying to cover their own asses.

A man suddenly hopped into the driver's seat of the cruiser. "All right, Dean, we better get you to a hospital."

He responded by rebelliously kicking the barrier between them—with enough fervor to startle the man. Their gazes met in the rear-view mirror. "I'm not going anywhere without my brother!"

The man hesitated, apparently torn. He seemed to appreciate Dean's sentiments, but at the same time, he had his instructions. "Don't worry, son. He'll be right behind us."

Dean cursed, but with the car pulling into reverse, there wasn't much else he could do.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:** How did John survive the ritual_ _...? Please review!_


	20. Parting Company

_**Author's Note:**_ _If necessary, please refer back to chapter 13... I tried not to make this part too confusing, but it's a blend of "extremely weird science," mythology, and my own imagination, so I wish you luck._

 _ **Transmutation:**_ _The conversion of base metals into gold or silver... The conversion of one element or nuclide into another, either naturally or artificially... (Merriam-Webster)_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

John Winchester loved his children. They were all he had left, and he loved them beyond measure. True, he made it a point not to call attention to such sentiments—they were dangerous in a world of violence and evil—which certainly didn't help his rocky relationship with Sam… but that didn't matter as long as Sam was safe. Happiness… Material wealth… Friendship… Peace… John always believed they were small prices to pay for the boys' safety.

The ironic thing was Sam thought pursuing a normal life would lead to safety… He thought no hunting meant no danger… How could John break the truth to him? The damn fire started in his nursery. The monster that killed Mary… It was in his nursery. God only knew what the bastard was doing there, but somehow, it involved Sam. The poor kid could try running from it all he liked, but at the end of the day, John knew—he just _knew_ —that Dean was the only one who really had a choice in the matter.

The night Sam left for Stanford, John was terrified. How could he let his baby boy go off by himself when unknown enemies might be watching from afar, stalking him, eager to hurt him? Sam would be easy prey on his own, and John couldn't protect him and hunt Mary's killer at the same time. No… He had to keep hunting. It wasn't just an obsession… And it wasn't just about vengeance… He had to destroy the monster before it made a move on Sam. It was always about Sam…

But there were some things John would never tell the boy. He couldn't find the words… Had to shelter him from an unbearable burden… Instead, he simply lost his temper and drove Sam away… which he quickly regretted, and had every intention of fixing… as soon as he killed the monster.

He was such an arrogant fool… He actually thought he could do it—finish the job before it returned to bite them in the ass… Then, and only then, would they have the slightest hope of a starting fresh… It was worth the wait… It was worth the risk… At least, that's what John told himself at the time. He should have known better…

" _As it turns out," Monroe said, gloating sadistically while John lay strapped to an operating table, "we're not the only ones with a vested interest in young Sam here, and you'll be pleased to know he's worth more to us alive than dead…"_

He never should have let Sam out of his sight… Except, the kid wasn't a child anymore. He was grown up, stubborn, highly skilled, and obnoxiously tall… Unlike the Stynes, John wasn't going to lock him in the attic, so where did that leave them? Estranged… Vulnerable… Heartbroken…

 _"So," Monroe continued, "instead of sacrificing him, we're gonna adopt him. I mean, it's only fair, right? You've been killing us; we'll be killing you… The survivors are gonna need compensation."_

 _The look on Sammy's face was devastating, especially when they revealed the tattoo on his wrist. He wasn't merely ashamed of it, he was ashamed of himself, and he couldn't even meet his father's gaze—which hurt above all else. John had spent the last twenty-one years of his life resolved that nothing would ever victimize his children, and he had failed. He had failed miserably._

 _"You think you're gonna survive this?" John snorted, trying to mask his dread. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Styne, even if you kill me, this war isn't over. I have friends—friends who love Sam more than life itself. They know all about you, and they're already working on contingency plans. Your days are numbered."_

 _"Mmm… Technically, no." Monroe flaunted a crystal decanter, removing the lid. "We're about to extract your soul, Mr. Winchester, which we will then use in a complicated ritual where we will also dismember what's left of your body. It's quite grisly, to be frank, and I'm sure it'll give Sam nightmares, but it's all for the sake of our reincarnation, ensuring that our days are not, as you say, numbered."_

 _He released the decanter, but instead of crashing to the floor, it levitated upwards, floating directly above John's chest._

 _Sam moaned and tried to shake off his captors, but they were too strong, and they rubbed it in._ _"Settle down, Sammy."_

 _"Once we finish with you," Monroe went on, "we'll start fresh with Dean and fend off the FBI. I doubt they'll be hard to manage. As for your friends… Well, maybe I'll take Sam on an extended vacation back to Europe while Jacob and the boys go hunting. What do you say to that?"_

 _John licked the blood off his lips and finally caught Sam's eye. The boy shook his head, terrified… After all, he didn't know that Doc Benton told the hunter everything there is to know about the elixir of life…_

"Unfortunately," the alchemist had said much earlier, "we don't have a couple weeks to cook up a new batch—it would take too long just to gather the ingredients."

"Perhaps," John acknowledged. "But you said the ingredients create a mixture that creates a compound that acquires new properties—or rather, new essences—each time you refine it through fire. You said the purification process must be repeated over and over again… until you finally produce a compound that contains every essence that exists in nature… The philosopher's stone, a.k.a., the elixir of life."

"Yes, and because it contains every essence that exists in nature, it can directly influence the behavior of everything that exists in nature. Particularly by accelerating or completely suspending the transmutation process. But like I said, we don't have access to such a compound, so how does that help us?"

"We have you," John pointed out. "How much of the elixir did you drink, doc? Doesn't that mean you have every essence that exists in nature flowing through your system? Flowing through your blood?"

"It would be diluted. I doubt it could grant you immortality."

"I don't want immortality. But, worse case scenario, if the Stynes try sacrificing me to harness my soul, I want to make sure I can stop them. And if humans somehow experience transmutation through their souls, as you suspect, then your blood might have just enough juice in it to preserve mine from tampering."

"Well, that sounds good in theory, but I can't guarantee it will work."

"It has to work… It might be our last chance…"

 _After trying to encourage Sam, John prepared himself for the fight of his life. Monroe began chanting in some ancient, evil dialect, and they all watched the floating decanter for signs of a magical reaction… Of course, nothing happened. Apparently, Benton's blood did the trick. John glanced at the alchemist and saw him smirk. Was that amusement? Admiration? Camaraderie? They were definitely enemies, but damn, they did work well together._

 _Without warning, Benton produced a chef's knife from under his jacket and viciously plunged it into the nearest Styne's back. "How many times do I have to say it?" he barked, yanking the knife free and shoving the carcass at Monroe—the impact knocked them to the floor. "That ain't the hunter's blood!" He jumped to John's side and slashed the leather strap on his wrist. "It's mine!"_

 _The Stynes were caught completely off guard, giving John ample time to secure the knife from Benton. Then, Monroe was shouting orders while 'Thug 1' charged at the alchemist. They crashed into each other, grappling blindly. Meanwhile, 'Thug 2' hastened to recapture John. Luckily, it was easy to hold him at bay—armed with a knife, John wasn't as mindful of the Stynes' safety as they were of his._

 _He took turns between slashing at Thug 2's throat and slashing at his restraints. Soon, he was free and off the operating table. By now, Jacob and Sam were missing, but John couldn't let that distract him. Thug 2 and Monroe were both frantic to subdue him, and he only had a single blade to work with._

 _In the end, it was more than sufficient._

 _Standing over Monroe's fallen body, John growled, "Stay away from my family, you sick son of a bitch."_

 _He glanced at Doc Benton, who lingered between him and the stairs. For a long pause, neither moved… Sam was still in danger, but as far as the alchemist was concerned, Monroe was dead and their allegiance severed. Could they still trust each other? If not, John would be hard-pressed to defend himself._

 _As usual, Benton's head began listing to the side. "You are every bit the berserker I remember. I don't suppose we could be friends?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Of course not. Very well. Nevertheless, we should part on good terms. Elizabeth might want to kill you herself for murdering her relatives, and I'd hate to take that from her. Shall we go our separate ways, and see what the future holds?"_

 _"Oh, what the hell." John didn't have much choice. He couldn't kill an immortal freak with a meager chef's knife—and even if he could, he was running out of time to rescue Sam. "It's been a pleasure, doc. I wish you and Elizabeth a happy marriage, but make no mistake, the moment you go back to hurting people, I'll be there to finish what I started."_

 _Benton grinned and together they made their way up the stairs, out of the basement. They were almost to the front door when they heard a sound that stopped them in their tracks. Police sirens. And one look outside convinced them they were too late. Sam, Jacob, and Dean—of all people—were already in custody. John might be able to break them out, but not if he got himself arrested first._

 _Once he made his decision, he knew better than to hesitate. "Let's get out of here," he advised. Refusing to look back, the two turned tail and fled._

It took forever to reach the country club where John left his Sierra Grande. From there, he and Benton said goodbye. He didn't know where the alchemist would go, or what he would do, or how he would rendezvous with Elizabeth—that was all up to him, and frankly, John didn't care. He had more important things to worry about… like his children… not to mention Monroe's claim that he wasn't the only one with a vested interest in Sam…

It must be the monster that killed Mary… Who else? But what did the damn thing want? And how much did Sammy know? If the Stynes considered him worth 'adopting,' as they put it—the bastards—it's possible they taunted him with the truth, in which case, the kid would be distraught. John had to find him. Quickly.

It would be difficult… He had no idea if the boys were taken to the police department or a hospital—which hospital?—or somewhere else entirely. And under the feds' supervision, Dean wouldn't have access to his cell phone. Still… John would find them. He had to find them. They were all he had left… and he'd be damned before he let anyone take them away…

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Sam and Dean are material witnesses... And Henriksen wants an explanation... Please review!_


	21. Out of the Woods

**SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

Sam was free. At least, there was a slight possibility that he might be free—a part of him couldn't believe it, especially when Dean went off the rails at the police. True, they were always skeptical of the authorities, but they never treated them like the enemies. Not unless they _were_ the enemies.

He didn't make a sound as two of the officers—Sheriff Graham Treadwell and his subordinate, Roger Owens—liberated him from his encumbrances, all the while reciting the same old feeble encouragement. "It's okay… We've got you… You're safe now… It will all be over soon…" Somehow, based on Dean's reaction, Sam doubted it—and the contempt over on Jacob's face was hardly reassuring. If he could only get to the Impala…

But that wasn't in the cards. With dozens of cops, feds and special forces swarming the place, he better not draw attention to the Winchester arsenal. Besides, Treadwell had a firm grasp on his good arm, and the other was only now starting to tingle—promising a long session of pins-and-needles. Just what he needed.

What was taking his dad so long? He had to believe the hunter escaped—anything else would be too devastating—but if he had, then where was he? Sam turned his head in every direction, glancing from Jacob to the house to the cops to the driveway where he last saw Dean shoved in a car. His senses were overloading, and despite the persisting danger, he felt himself slipping into shock. Damn; talk about pathetic. He needed to snap out of it.

"Treadwell!" One of the feds—judging by his immaculate suit—approached them impatiently. "We need you over here! Give the boy to Agent Findley. He'll escort him to safety."

The sheriff's hand tightened on Sam's arm, only for a moment, but long enough to justify Dean's suspicions. Sam tensed, resisting the urge to retaliate as another fed—Agent Findley—came to his rescue. It was never a good idea to strike a cop.

Still, as Treadwell gave up custody over Sam, he whispered, "I'll see you soon," which was rather disconcerting. Where was the hell was his dad?

"Let's go, Sam." Findley wasted no time shepherding him into the congested driveway. He was built like a tank, but his gentle demeanor was so different from the Stynes' that Sam almost trusted him—wanted to trust him. After all, didn't Monroe accuse John of calling the FBI? So even if the police themselves were shady, surely the feds were aboveboard. Right…?

Jacob's eyes were on him as Findley eased him into the front seat of an unmarked sedan—the front seat implied he was a passenger, not a prisoner. He was actually getting away! But one thing remained clear. As long as Jacob survived, Sam would have to watch his back—indefinitely—for fear of retribution. This wasn't over, and the thought made him shiver.

Settling into the driver's seat, Findley glanced at him in concern. "I'm gonna take you to a hospital, all right? We'll be right behind your brother."

Thank God.

Sam acknowledged him with a grateful look, but otherwise didn't speak a word. His left arm was starting to sting with those damn pins-and-needles—it was abnormally painful—and he could barely think straight. What did those bastards give him? He spent the entire ride trying to endure the agony. At least he wasn't still locked up in that miserable attic.

After what felt like hours—it couldn't have been that long, could it?—they entered a city and followed the signs to the nearest medical center. Findley had been trying to evaluate his condition, asking questions like, "Are you in pain? Where do you hurt? Can you move your arm? Are you even with me right now?" But Sam was lost in his own little world of exhaustion, fear and overwhelming discomfort.

They drove into a packed parking lot and came to a stop near the police cruiser where Dean had been detained. Presently, the cop was standing outside the vehicle waiting with a frown while his cargo in the back seat continued to wreak havoc. Only an idiot would try handling Dean when he was that pissed off, and evidently the cop knew better. Sam, however, didn't think twice—he needed his brother.

Stumbling out of the sedan, he pushed past the cop—who withdrew a few feet at Findley's command—and anxiously pried open the back door. Dean burst out like a tidal wave, readily shedding his handcuffs, and swept Sam up in a crushing embrace. At first, even though he saw it coming, the intensity startled Sam, and he almost recoiled, but then he recognized Dean's smell, and the familiarity soothed him. Finally able to drop his guard, he crumbled into his brother's arms.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean whispered, for his ears alone. "We're not out of the woods yet… I need you to follow my lead."

"You're bleeding…" Sam inadvertently pictured his dad back in the laboratory, covered in blood. It might have been Doc Benton's, but the memory still made him queasy. Was John even alive anymore?

"Don't worry about me," Dean said, leaning back just far enough to give him a once-over. His green eyes were angry and alert. "You look like crap, kiddo. What did they do to you?"

"Nothing…" Sam was regaining control of his left arm, and he took care to hide his wrist, but of course Dean noticed. He made a grab for it, and Sam shied away so skittishly that he bumped into Findley—the agent steadied him in surprise even as alarm washed over Dean. By now, paramedics were on their way out to collect them, and Sam immediately resigned himself to their care—he couldn't cope with the shame of that hideous tattoo, and he couldn't bear to let Dean see it.

They were rushed inside the hospital with Findley answering most of the questions—Sam remained too reserved, and Dean too preoccupied. Fortunately, they were kept together throughout the treatment process—Dean was obviously volatile, and Findley had the good sense not to separate them.

Ultimately, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Dean's shoulder injury was little more than a flesh wound, easily patched up, and aside from some ugly bruising, he had nothing else to worry about. No broken bones. No concussion. He was practically good to go.

Sam wasn't quite as lucky. The abrasions covering his wrists, ankles and feet were all minor—the nurse took one look at his tattoo and rapidly concealed it with a wide bandage—but he was also bruised, nauseous, dehydrated, and apparently drugged, plus he had a small gash on his neck. So, the damage was about what he expected. Bad, but not terrible, which naturally heightened his embarrassment. He was a hunter. He was trained to kill monsters. He was equipped to withstand all kinds of abuse. He shouldn't be this affected.

Eventually, they were given hospital gowns and placed in a recovery room where the doctors urged them to rest. Fat chance of that. Findley and the other cop meant well, but their constant presence suggested that Sam and Dean were in protective custody—whether they liked it or not—and having spent their childhood trying to avoid protective custody, they didn't find it the least bit encouraging. Especially with the supernatural involved. They'd be far better off on their own, in the Impala with their arsenal, getting the hell out of town.

While Sam curled up in a chair by the window, Dean paced restlessly—like a caged animal. A nurse brought them food and water, but neither of them ate. Sam could barely drink, much to everyone's displeasure, and it took Dean, Findley and the nurse's combined efforts to coax him to try. Honestly, he was acting like a child, he couldn't explain it, and their dad would be so disappointed, as usual.

Dad… Sam shuddered, and despite their audience, he grabbed Dean's arm. "What are we doing here? Dad needs our help. We have to find him!"

Dean grimaced, but before he could answer, a new voice filled the room. "You and me both, kid." They were joined by a burnt-out African-American in a disheveled shirt with a loose tie around his neck. Dean instinctively sidled in front of Sam, but gave no indication of hostility, which meant the newcomer probably wouldn't attack them. Nevertheless, Sam kept his guard up.

"Henriksen!" Findley sounded nervous. "You sure you should be on your feet?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Don't even get me started." He turned to the nurse and the other cop, flashing an FBI badge. "Special Agent Victor Henriksen. Would you mind excusing us? I need a word with my two witnesses."

 _Witnesses?_ Sam caught his breath—that meant he wanted them to testify, which meant he wanted to uproot their lives and shelter them somewhere 'safe' until the trial, which meant no more Stanford, no more Jessica, no more future… Not to mention no more hunting. That wasn't going to fly…

"For what it's worth, Dean," Henriksen said, closing the door behind the nurse and cop after they disappeared into the hall. "I'm glad you got your brother out in one piece. How's he doing?"

"He's fine," Dean snapped a little too defensively. The feds glanced at each other, and Findley shook his head, prompting Dean to modify, "He'll live. What have you heard about our dad?" He tried to keep the worry from his voice, but anyone could hear it slipping through the cracks. John had been at the estate during Dean's fight with Jacob. If he didn't come to their rescue, it could only mean he was held up by Monroe, Rhett and Roscoe, and given how much difficulty Dean had with just one of the bastards, how would John fare against three, even with Doc Benton's assistance?

Henriksen sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Honestly, I don't know what to tell you. According to Reidy, someone went on a killing spree. Most of our suspects are dead, including Monroe himself, and your dad's nowhere to be found. Makes me wonder who our vigilante is, and how he managed to take on such a powerful, heinous family all on his own?"

Sam felt a weight rise from his shoulders. Monroe was dead! And knowing John, he wasn't missing, he was just keeping a low profile to avoid the cops, and the feds, who apparently didn't appreciate people taking the law into their own hands…

"You should be thanking him," Dean said coolly.

"I'd like to," Henriksen assured him. "Reidy also described the Stynes' basement as a torture chamber, and we can safely add serial killing to their list of crimes. But you're the one who informed us of your dad's involvement, Dean, and I can't close this case without his statement—at the very least. I don't much care for loose ends."

"Well, I can't help you with that," Dean retorted. "I was brought here against my will before we could meet up. I don't have the slightest idea where he is or what he's doing."

Henriksen smiled, though he certainly wasn't amused. "I can arrange to get your cell phone from the police department. You can call him up. Ask him to turn himself in."

"Oh yeah, that's right, the police department…" Dean abruptly changed the subject. "Let me ask you something about the police department, Agent Henriksen. You happen to remember getting K.O.'d by a twenty-year-old girl? What does she weigh? Ninety pounds?" Henriksen and Findley both seized up at the reminder. "Cause I didn't see her lay a finger on you. In fact, it almost looked like she threw you against that mirror with the power of her mind. I wonder if the cameras caught that?"

"Dean…" Henriksen's voice was low and dangerous.

"No!" Dean was out of patience. "I'm not gonna cooperate! The Stynes are evil, murdering freaks who deserve to die, and your stupid team stopped me before I could finish the job! Mark my words, Jacob won't stay in jail even if we testify, even if you put him in a maximum security prison! He's too powerful for that, and then he'll be after us all over again, and I swear to God, if he hurts my brother one more time, there will be hell to pay!"

Sam flushed, shrinking in on himself, while Henriksen scowled.

"You're making this more difficult than it has to be, Dean. We're on the same side, here."

"Go to hell!"

They fumed at each other, and Findley took it upon himself to intervene. "Sir, they've been through a lot today. It wouldn't hurt to let them sleep on it. Give them time to recoup."

As stubborn as Dean was, Sam doubted he would change his mind, but he nevertheless welcomed the reprieve and nodded gratefully. It was enough to convince Henriksen to back off—albeit temporarily. "All right, fine," he said after a beat, glaring at Findley. "Just be sure to keep an eye on them. They're material witnesses in a federal investigation, and I don't want them absconding on us. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

With that, Henriksen stormed out of the room, taking care not to slam the door behind him. For a moment, no one moved. Findley seemed sympathetic, but what were the odds he'd turn a blind eye if Sam and Dean tried to leave? They weren't prisoners, per se, but they were definitely flight risks, and at this point, there wasn't any going back.

Jacob… Elizabeth… Their remaining relatives… They weren't just going to let Sam off the hook. For that matter, neither would "Hell's finest general," the demon Azazel. His words still echoed in Sam's ears. _"No wonder you're my favorite… Take care now, Sammy. I've got a lot riding on you…"_ What the hell did that mean?

It meant that Sam was cursed, and even if they killed every last Styne, in a year or two, they would still have to worry about Azazel's "trusty minions" coming "to fetch him." He wasn't safe to be around. Jessica, his friends at Stanford—they would all be better off without him. There wasn't any going back, and the thought filled him with dread.

"I just wanted out… I was so close…"

Dean and Findley both glanced at him in concern.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," his brother said. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

He really was different. He tried denying it, but deep down, he always knew. What made him think he could escape the life? Groaning, Sam stared out the window and sullenly watched the sun descend beyond the city's skyline.

 **SPN**

Evening came and went by the time Henriksen returned with two 'agents' from Homeland Security. None of them looked happy with each other, and the introductions were strained. While Jim 'Ford'—a scrawny man with a sharp nose, thick hair and a dark goatee—tried to be civil, his partner, Caleb 'Willis'—a bald, much more muscular man—kept making it difficult with his harsh, commanding attitude.

"All right, boys," he said, tossing two sets of fresh clothes—including shoes—on the nearest bed. "Get dressed. You're in our custody now."

Sam should have been delighted. Pastor Jim was one of their old emergency contacts, and Caleb supplied them with weapons and ammunition. They were friends—good friends—here to help. How they managed to produce badges legitimate enough to fool Henriksen, he had no idea, and he knew better than to question it, but he wasn't particularly interested. Instead, he remained in his chair, turned to the window—it was too dark outside to see anything but his own reflection.

"I don't understand," Findley was protesting, more out of confusion than interdepartmental rivalry. "This is our case."

"I know," Henriksen grumbled. "But they check out. Nothing we can do."

"You're…" Dean was dumbfounded, and Sam could easily imagine Caleb winking at him. "You've got to be kidding!"

"'Fraid not, pal," the old hunter replied. "Unless you like sitting around waiting to get snared by the bad guys." After a moment's consideration, Dean made a grab for his new jeans.

"We're going to take them to a safe house," Jim told the feds. "Just until we've established who all is connected to the Stynes' criminal activities. We have to assume they had accomplices, and I don't want anyone targeting our witnesses. Don't worry. We'll be in touch."

"Oh, you're right about that," Henriksen said testily. "Cause if you're not, I promise, I will track you down."

Caleb chuckled before focusing on Sam. "Let's go, kid! Look alive!" There was a hint of compassion in his otherwise surly voice—just enough to compel Sam to his feet. He changed grudgingly out of the hospital gown and into jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and a military field jacket—much like his brother's. Despite everything, it felt surprisingly good to be in warm, clean clothes, and for the first time since this whole thing began, a weak smile crossed his face.

Once his shoes were on, Sam allowed Dean and Jim to guide him from the room while Caleb stood guard. Henriksen and Findley were both visibly frustrated, and it would only be a matter of time before they learned the truth—then they'd be pissed, especially Henriksen. What would their first thoughts be? That Jim and Caleb were kidnappers? Or that Sam and Dean somehow arranged an escape? Either way, they were bound to organize a search, which meant the hunters had to get as far from Shreveport as they could, as quickly as possible.

"Have you heard from dad?" Dean asked once they reached the lobby.

"No," Caleb said apologetically. "Just Singer. He's the one who brought us up to speed on all this, and had a computer-hacking friend of his authenticate our I.D.s. I'd love to know where he finds these people."

"He told us to let you know Jessica's safe," Jim assured Sam, much to his relief. "We'll take you to her straight away."

"No!" Sam shook his head as they ventured out into the parking lot. "We have to find our dad!" Jessica was out of harm's way—Bobby would ensure that. But John… He might need their help. Even if the Stynes were all accounted for, what about Doc Benton?

"Sorry, kid," Caleb replied as they circled around a truck and found themselves face-to-face with the Impala—Dean almost laughed at the sight. "But we know your daddy's protocol, and we're getting you out of here. No ifs, ands, or buts."

"How'd you pull this off?" Dean asked, helping Sam into the backseat while Caleb got behind the wheel—not many people could get away with such audacity—the car was Dean's baby, after all—but at the moment, he was just happy to see her outside the impound. Consequently, he climbed in after his brother while Jim took the front passenger's seat.

"Like we said," Caleb reiterated. "That Roadhouse genius really came through for us, and when the feds think you're from Homeland Security, you can get away with confiscating anything."

"Now try to get some shut-eye," Jim urged as they pulled away from the medical center. "You both obviously need it, and we've got a long drive ahead of us."

That said, they disappeared into the night.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Will Sam and Dean reunite with their father? Please review!_


	22. Family

**SPN**

 **(Texas … Monday, September 27, 2004)**

According to their father's 'protocol,' in situations like these, when they were separated, Sam and Dean were instructed to check in at the first motel listed in the yellow pages, using the alias 'Jim Rockford.' They were not allowed to call their old man—in case a chirping phone might expose him to more danger. Rather, they were supposed to lie low and wait, calmly and patiently, for him to resurface—as he always did. Or more accurately, as he always had before.

Jim and Caleb both knew this. They also knew how powerful the Stynes were, and they didn't think it wise to stay in Shreveport longer than necessary. Therefore, they gave a phone number to the manager at said motel and asked for her to pass it along to anyone who showed up looking for the 'Rockford brothers.' Then, they set out for Nebraska.

Sure enough, John called shortly after they entered Texas. He and Jim exchanged a few words before the pastor handed his phone to Dean, who snatched it eagerly. "Dad? Are you okay? Where are you?" He peered over at Sam, who was pressed up against the door, silent and still. In the dark, Dean couldn't tell whether or not he was awake, but even with their dad on the phone, he didn't stir.

"I'm fine, Dean." If anything, John sounded weary, but that was better than the possible alternatives. "What about you and Sammy?"

Dean hesitated. Physically, they were in good shape—though he had to wonder about Sam's wrist. The kid was hiding something, and beneath a coat sleeve, a shirt sleeve, and a bandage, it was impossible to say what. He fell back on the same response he gave Henriksen. "We'll live. We're on our way to some roadhouse in Nebraska."

"I know the place," John said. "I'll meet you there. Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't expecting to see you at the Styne estate this afternoon. Those feds actually let you accompany them on their raid?" He sounded skeptical, and Dean grew tense. To be fair, he _did_ beat Jacob—more or less—and he _did_ rescue Sam, but in the process, he also disobeyed a direct order and put himself in a compromising situation. Just because it all worked out didn't mean he'd get off lightly for his transgression.

"No sir… But it's a long, long story."

John sighed. "We'll discuss it later. Have you seen Sammy's wrist?"

Dean's heart skipped a beat. He knew he wasn't imagining things! For their dad to ask, it must be serious. Extremely serious. What did those bastards do to his brother? "No. It's covered, and he's not talking. What happened?"

John didn't answer right away, and Dean feared he might be ignored. But they understood each other well enough for John to appreciate his eldest son's misgivings. Dean was responsible for Sam, and he didn't respond well when he was kept out of the loop.

"It's a tattoo," John said at last. "I'm thinking the Stynes wanted to demoralize him, and what better way than to brand him?"

 _Brand him!?_ Thank God Caleb was behind the wheel, or Dean would have driven straight off the road. He immediately thought back to Jacob's repulsive declaration. _"You might as well give it up; you're going to get sacrificed either way. Just like your daddy… But not your brother. He gets to live. We've decided to keep him as a souvenir for all the grief your family's caused."_

So they branded him!? Who _does_ that!? Dean thought he might be sick. "Well," he told his dad, lowering his voice. "You should know that 'demoralized' is a freaking understatement."

"I'm aware," John assured him. "The Stynes tried sacrificing me in front of him. It didn't work, but I saw the look in his eyes. He's gonna need some time to get past this. We'll have to be patient with him."

Sam either woke up, or had been listening all along, and he must have realized what they were discussing. "Lemme talk to him." He made a grab for the phone, and for once, Dean didn't object. Anything the kid needed, he would happily supply. "Dad…? Are you okay? … Dad, I'm sorry… I never should have…"

He sounded so lost and broken. If Dean ever saw Jacob again, no one in the world—the feds least of all—would be able to protect him.

John's voice was soft and gentle—Dean couldn't make out his words, but he could tell their father was offering Sam as much comfort as he knew how. Amazing. Why did it always take a disaster to put things in perspective?

Dean leaned forward between the two front seats and whispered, "Either of you have a spare gun or something?" He sensed Jim's apprehension, but Caleb was on the same wavelength and quickly reached inside his jacket for a combat knife. Giving it a little twirl, he held it out, and Dean plucked it from his hand. "Thanks."

"Yes sir," Sam was saying forlornly. "Yes sir… We'll see you tomorrow." The call ended abruptly, but before the kid sank back into a stupor, Dean lightly nudged his arm and passed him the blade. He couldn't see Sam's face, but he felt his perplexity.

"Hold onto this," he prescribed, hoping its weight, symmetry and substance would help restore his brother's dignity. "And if you need to, it's okay to get angry." He left it at that, because honestly what more could he possibly say to make things better? Nothing. At least not tonight.

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska … Tuesday, September 28, 2004)**

"All right, boys, here's the story," Caleb said the next morning as they entered Nebraska. "Unless, of course, you want Jessica to know the truth. The Stynes are notorious criminals with a history of fraud, arms dealing, tax evasion, kidnapping and murder. Your daddy's a Vietnam war hero the Stynes want to exploit as some kind of mercenary. Consequently, you've all spent your lives in the Witness Protection Program, and Singer's the U.S. Marshal assigned to protect Sam. Unfortunately, he was on leave last week when the Stynes murdered his partner, exposing Sam and Jessica… and the rest is history. The Stynes wanted Sam as leverage to coerce John into cooperating, and now most of them are dead."

"With a few notable exceptions," Dean grumbled. Jacob. Elizabeth. The two henchmen who confined Jessica to some kind of mansion before she escaped—Earl and Freddie? They were all still out there, and they couldn't be very pleased with the Winchesters.

"Yeah, but don't worry about them," Caleb said blithely. "Thanks to our friendly computer genius, we know exactly who they are and what they look like, and we're gonna spread the word. Trust me. Every hunter worth his salt will want a piece of Frankenstein's grandchildren, which means after today, those freaks might as well march straight to prison. They'll be safer behind bars."

Dean certainly hoped so, but even if they should be so lucky, it wasn't enough. Not for his brother. They both knew he couldn't return to Stanford—that would be the first place Jacob, Henriksen, and everyone in-between would look for him. It was just too risky. And as much as Dean missed Sam when he was at school, this was not how he wanted the kid to come back home. It wasn't fair.

They drove the rest of the way to Harvelle's Roadhouse in silence. Over the past few days, Dean had seen just about the entire eastern half of the country, and he was ready for a break. They didn't have any significant connection to Nebraska. Maybe they could stay in town for awhile. Try to recover.

At last they arrived in the parking lot of a ramshackle building that hardly looked 'up to code.' Bobby came out to greet them along with a middle-aged woman and two blonde girls who inadvertently brought Elizabeth to mind.

"Jess!" Sam sprang from the car as quickly as he could—which wasn't very impressive, all things considered—and beelined over to the taller of the two girls. They embraced, and as Dean, Jim and Caleb approached from behind, the poor kid once again began apologizing. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

"It's okay, Sam! It wasn't your fault!" They clung to each other tightly for several seconds; then Jessica glanced at Dean with tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

Crap. He knew that expression better than he cared to admit. Sam and Jessica weren't just in a dating relationship. They were in a _serious_ dating relationship. Dean should have known. Typical Sam, after all. This would complicate things. As if ditching Stanford wouldn't be hard enough.

Allowing the two as much privacy as possible, Dean and the other hunters gathered in a big, grim huddle.

"You okay, boy?" Bobby asked, risking Dean's displeasure by drawing him into a hug. It might seem like a chick-flick gesture, but given the circumstances, Dean let it pass.

"No," he confessed under his breath. "I'm freaking pissed."

"Can't say I blame you." Bobby turned to shake Jim's hand while nodding curtly at Caleb. "Gentlemen. I reckon I owe you one."

"You're kidding, right?" Jim asked even as Caleb said, "Didn't do it for you, Singer."

They were a strange group, Dean thought. Hunters. An arms dealer. A pastor. All here to rescue Sam. He would never say it, but he loved them for that.

"Well!" Bobby motioned toward the two women. "Introductions? Dean, this is Ellen Harvelle, an old friend of your dad's, and the boss around here… And this is her daughter, Jo."

"Nice to meet you," Dean said politely, shaking Ellen's hand.

"Likewise," she replied with a strong, kind voice. He immediately liked her, and he felt far more respect for her establishment, despite its lackluster condition, than he did for any of the mansions in the 'classier' Styne neighborhood.

Then he gave Jo a second look. She had to be a teenager, small but tough—judging from her expression—and very athletic. There was something about her that reminded Dean of his own adolescence, and he briefly wondered if she had also been raised in the life. "Hey."

She smiled, friendly enough. "Hey."

Pleasantries out of the way, Dean focused back on Sam and Jessica. They were in their own little world, both reeling from a shared nightmare, but taking comfort in each other. After all, they were together when the whole thing began. Maybe now, together again, they could finally put it behind them. Dean didn't know why, but the thought made him ache deep inside. "Bobby, how's she handling all this?"

"Pretty well, actually. You know Sam. He's not gonna fall for a fragile little princess. She's got spirit."

Dean grunted. That didn't mean she could cope with the truth. It sucked, but it was what it was. "Is she gonna be all right returning to Stanford?" Bobby hesitated, which was practically an answer in itself. As long as Earl and Freddie Styne remained at large, she would be a target—Sammy's weak spot—especially if, or rather when, Jacob made it out of police custody. "What are we going to tell her? She can't come with us." Their lives were just too dangerous.

"She's more than welcome to stay here," Ellen offered. "Long as she needs to."

"I've already prepared her for that possibility," Bobby said, rubbing his forehead. "If we can get her a fake I.D. and prevent her from calling her parents, she shouldn't be traceable this far from California. I think it's her safest option, at least till the Stynes are taken care of."

"That's a heavy burden to place on a young girl," Jim pointed out. "Stripping her of her family. Her future."

"Another reason to hunt those bastards down and kill them as quickly as possible," Caleb said, though none of them actually thought it'd be that easy. The Stynes were highly trained, and considering how much they valued secrecy, they must be able to cover their tracks. Jessica's life would never be the same. But at least she would survive.

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska … Tuesday, September 28, 2004)**

They gradually made their way inside the Roadhouse, where Ellen had a large breakfast waiting for them. Steak and eggs. Bacon and tater tots. Everyone, even Jess, ate ravenously—except for Sam. The thought of food still made him nauseous, and he stuck to a bottle of water. He could feel their eyes all watching him—particularly Dean and Bobby's—and he tried not to return their gazes.

" _My trusty minions will come fetch him after that, but I need him sharp and ready for what_ ' _s in store_ … _"_

" _It_ ' _d be an honor_ … _Practically safeguarding the Holy Grail_ … _"_

How was he going to explain any of this to his dad? It wasn't over yet—the hunters all seemed well aware of that fact. But what they didn't realize, and what Sam feared more than anything, was that it had barely begun, and for some reason, he was at the center of it. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured that demon, Azazel, sneering at him.

To make things worse, the tattoo on his wrist periodically burned, and sooner or later, he would have to clean it. Jacob warned him about the ink's permanence. Apparently, they didn't use a normal pigment, but soot from demon smoke—so when Jacob said the tattoo wouldn't come off, he may not have been exaggerating. More than ever before, Sam hated the supernatural.

Shortly after breakfast, Jim and Caleb thanked Ellen for her hospitality and took their leave, eager to start hunting Stynes. They urged Sam and Dean to watch each other's backs and keep in touch.

"You're not going to stay?" Sam asked, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Caleb patted his shoulder. "We've got work to do, kid."

"You be kind to yourself," Jim advised gently. "You're good, and you're strong, and you don't deserve any crap from that family. So you let them go, you hear me?"

Sam shivered, but with Jess sitting next to him, and Dean keeping watch, he tried to save face with a meager, "Yes sir."

A few minutes later, they were gone. It seemed so sudden—if it weren't for Jim and Caleb, the brothers might still be under Henriksen's supervision. Somehow "Thanks for bailing us out back there" didn't seem to cut it. But what more could they do? One day, Jim and Caleb might need a favor in return, and that would have to be enough. Besides, they weren't just old hunting pals. They were friends. And sometimes, friends didn't need anything more than heartfelt gratitude.

It took another hour before their absence was filled by John's arrival. He drifted through the door like a soft breeze, clean and quiet—at first, no one noticed. But then Dean snapped to attention, which alerted Sam, and he felt his hand instinctively crushing Jess'. They all rose to their feet, turning to stare tentatively at the old man. He must have stopped somewhere along the road; he was no longer covered in blood.

"Sammy," he said sadly, hardly resembling the tyrannical drill sergeant Sam remembered. Right now, he was nothing more than a worried father, and Sam had never been happier to see him. "I've missed you, boy. It's been a long time."

That was all the invitation Sam needed. Dropping Jess' hand, he crossed over to John, and the next thing either of them knew, they were clutching each other desperately. Sam felt like he was eight-years-old again, and finally out of danger. There was so much he wanted to say.

 _I'm sorry… I'll never leave again…_

 _Thank you…_

 _I love you…_

But in spite of Jim's admonition to be kind to himself, he was too ashamed to speak. John almost died back there. Monroe almost sacrificed him. All because Sam ran away to Stanford and got himself kidnapped. He was a failure, a disappointment, and possibly a demonic freak. He didn't deserve his father's affection, no matter what Jim said.

"Listen to me," John whispered in his ear. "You're my son. Dean's brother and _my_ son. I don't care what anyone's told you these past few days. You belong to _us_ , and don't you dare think otherwise. You understand?"

Sam's throat constricted, and when he nodded, it was more out of obedience than anything. He couldn't mistake his dad's sincerity, but that didn't erase the tattoo on his wrist, or the implications surrounding it.

"I know you're scared, and probably confused," John continued. "But we're gonna take it slow, and we're gonna figure it all out. I promise."

Sam didn't answer—he merely held onto his father like he would a life preserver. Maybe… Maybe John was right. Maybe they could recover from such an ordeal. But it would be hard, and it would be painful. In the end, only time would tell.

 **SPN**

 _ **Next Chapter:**_ _Henriksen has a lot to think about_ _… Please review!_


	23. Epilogue

**SPN**

 **(Louisiana … Tuesday, September 28, 2004)**

Special Agent Victor Henriksen marched down a long, austere corridor with an impatient scowl on his hard face. Up until yesterday, he thought he'd seen it all. But Dean Winchester was right—the Stynes weren't just frightening; they were in a league of their own. He had plenty of evidence to lock Jacob away for good—Elizabeth too—and yet, he couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something.

" _You happen to remember getting K.O.'d by a twenty-year-old girl? What does she weigh? Ninety pounds? Cause I didn't see her lay a finger on you. In fact, it almost looked like she threw you against that mirror with the power of her mind_ … _Mark my words, Jacob won't stay in jail even if we testify, even if you put him in a maximum security prison! He's too powerful for that, and then he'll be after us all over again, and I swear to God, if he hurts my brother one more time, there will be hell to pay!"_

What if… What if there really were forces in the world that couldn't be explained? Henriksen had seen the footage from the Shreveport police department, and Elizabeth certainly appeared to use telekinesis when she stormed Dean's interrogation room. It sounded crazy, and Sheriff Treadwell eagerly agreed to help cover it up—they couldn't go public with something like that! But they couldn't just ignore it, either, which meant Henriksen and his team would have to seriously reevaluate their basic world views.

But in the meantime, he had a suspect to interview.

Reaching a sturdy locked door, he nodded at the guard, who quickly let him in. Elizabeth sat at a table on the other side, waiting for him, still wearing that violet dress. Her eyes were puffy from crying, which made her seem half her age. Fortunately, it didn't bother Henriksen. Tears were a common ploy.

"Sorry to hear about your family," he said tactlessly, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat in front of her. "But I'm told they had it coming."

She smiled wistfully. "They truly did. But they're not all gone. Jacob's alive, and he's the only one I'd regret losing."

Henriksen furrowed his brow. "You do know he's going away for a very long time, don't you?"

"We'll see." She sounded remarkably calm given the devastation on her face.

"I have questions."

"I'm sure you do. Luckily, I'm in the business of bestowing wisdom and insight. How can I help?"

"Oh, that's right. You're a fortune-teller." Two days ago, Henriksen would have laughed at the very idea, but now he wasn't so sure. "You do understand your right to an attorney?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Please. I'm from the most prestigious family you can imagine, and we've spent generations hiding our affinity for the occult. I know my rights. And I'm not gonna be here forever, so if you have questions, you'd better ask now."

"Fine." Henriksen hoped she was bluffing. Dean warned him the Stynes would be difficult, if not impossible, to contain, and he hated being wrong. "Let's start with the Winchesters. From what I can tell, they're poor, working-class migrants with no roots and no prospects to speak of. Well, except for Sam. College seems to suit him. But aside from that, they're everything you're not. Polar opposites, in fact. What was your uncle's interest in them?"

"Their pedigree…" Elizabeth leaned forward. "Oh Agent Henriksen, you have no idea what makes a man special. Material wealth has nothing to do with it."

"Then help me understand. Is it their military training?"

"No. It's a supernatural thing."

Henriksen considered himself a rational man, which did not help him believe in the supernatural, but he knew all too well how crazy criminals could be. As long as _they_ believed this stuff, he'd have to take it seriously. More seriously now than ever. "You want to elaborate?"

"Let's just say they come from a long line of heroes." She paused, glancing down at his neck, and before he knew what was happening, his tie magically began to tighten. He gasped, unable to breathe—much less cry for help—as the silk compressed his throat.

She was going to kill him with her damn psychic crap! And there was nothing he could do to save himself!

But then she laughed and released him. He slumped forward, stunned, sweating and shaking. This couldn't be real!

"You see?" she asked. "The Winchesters are the ones who protect people like you from people like me. And they have quite a reputation—we're not the only ones after them. Truth is, they have no idea how much danger they're actually in. Especially sweet little Sam."

Henriksen tried not to think about how Dean would interpret that remark. "Why are you telling me this?"

She shrugged. "Secrecy was always my uncle's strategy, and I never had much respect for him. Now that he's dead, I might as well succumb to my baser instincts. Fear. Chaos. So much fun to play with."

He might be in over his head, but he couldn't bring himself to retreat. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Instead, he buckled down and braced himself for one hell of a revelation. "Go on. I'm all ears."

He wasn't sure how long they talked, but when he finally left the interrogation room, he felt ten years older. Damn. He had a lot to consider. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed Findley's number. "Hey," he said when the agent answered. "What's your status?"

"I followed the boys to a roadhouse in Nebraska. Their dad's here, too. As far as I can tell, I haven't been made, but if they're half as good as I suspect, it won't take them long to spot me."

"Well then, be careful," Henriksen barked. "These guys are assets, and we can't afford to lose them now."

 _ **THE END!**_

 _ **Author**_ **'** _ **s Note:**_ _Please_ _don_ _'t kill me! I know, it's kind of a cliffhanger, but I'm planning a sequel, and the more reviews I get, the more motivated I'll be. It was a pleasure to write, and I hope you enjoyed it! Hugs all around! :-)_


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